Breakfast at Target Anthology: #3 The Children Are Our Future

Aside from the fact that I'm a scrawny white chic working in the throws of North Charleston, the irony of my position lends to many new perspectives for me. You see, my VAD (VISTA Assignment Description) is to evaluate and assist afterschool programs in North Charleston elementary schools. This will hopefully, in essence, show that afterschool programs are a valuable piece in education and the community -- and to see that the money used on these programs is being well spent.

While I'm looking forward to and enjoying the research and development elements of my job, my favorite part of the day is getting out to the schools. Some of these kids are in desperate need of hugs and high fives, and I never seem to be in short supply (whether giving or receiving). Not only that, but my biggest source of entertainment comes from those little buggers. While this post may not be as heartfelt as Tracy's recent post of the similar effect (which made me very happy to see her in her up and coming role as an ESOL teacher), I do hope it offers you a little bit of humor - and the same shock value that it gave me!

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Upon arriving to one of the more residential schools, Will (the other VISTA in the office) and I found a group of 3rd grade students outside working on a art project. In the five minute span we stayed to observe them, I can remember at least two awkward moments.

First: The students were making "UFOs" out of cups and plates; and as an extension of the program's behavioral focus, it looks like they had to write a "life lesson" of sorts on their space ship (I guess those silly aliens need some social redirection). Some of them were along the lines of "It's good to be nice" and "Don't eat junk food." One little girl attempted to write: "Rapping is bad." Despite her best intentions, however, she left out a "p"... and subconsciously touched on another issue. Oh Lord.

Secondly, another little girl wanders up to me and excitedly begs me to inspect her UFO.
"So, what kind of aliens are in there?" I ask.

"Huh? Oh, uh, hold on..." She wanders off for a few seconds and returns with a puff in her chest.

"You see," she begins with a clearing of her throat, "This alien spaceship is for princess aliens. And these princess aliens had to go off and find presents for their queen who runs the planet."

"That's awesome! What does the queen alien look like?"

And without hesitation and a subsequent wave of her hand, "Girl! She looks like Hannah Montana!"

I always knew there was something other-worldly about Miley Cyrus; maybe she's from the same galaxy as Lady GaGa, whom I'm convinced is from Planet Skank.

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Meet DaShawn. Not "Day-Shawn," not "Dee-Shawn," and most certainly not "Duh-Shawn." At least, this is what he tells me and Will. So, we go to visit one of our schools by the navy base. These kids tend to be more personable and have no problems with shyness. So, DaShawn, age 6, was one of the first kids I met and had a chance to talk to. Amid a following conversation with one of his counselors, he interrupted by singing the "I'm 'Berfect' Song." It goes like this: "I'm Ber-fect! I'm Ber-fect! I'm Ber-fect! YEAH!" (Repeat about 300 more times.) Typically, this is where I ask the student to sit quietly and wait for his or her turn to talk. But this time, I had to ask:

"DaShawn, what in the world is 'Berfect'?"

"You don't KNOW?"

"Um, is it anything like 'perfect'?"

"NO! It's when you're cra-zy (rolls his head) -- when you're WILD (another head roll) -- and then, you get slapped!"

Trying hard to stifle my laughter, I begged another question: "So, this must happen a lot."

"Oh yeaaah, I'm as berfect as they come. So, when are we gonna play soccer?"

Did I mention he's six?

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Well, other than dealing with my crazy kids, I had a great weekend, and I'm excited about the week ahead. Off to my VISTA retreat in North Carolina - hello mountains in the fall!

Breakfast at Target Anthology: #2 "Holy Man"

I hate these lapses in writing; I get so excited about all the things I want to share with you all, and I find myself losing my sense of time. It's been nearly two weeks since my last post, and a lot has certainly happened. My collection of thoughts and life events has formed a nice big mental pile in my brain, and I find myself choking on the spit-up of details. It's not that I lack general motivation in updating; it's more the time and energy (and classy wit!).

But on the flip side, I'm happy that life is picking up; I definitely look forward to many more things and seeing cool peeps throughout the week. And HEYYY: I finally got me a real office with a real desk and a real computer! I feel like I'm in the thick of it, and I can actually begin work on some projects. Too bad this ain't a real full time job... I think I (and my office) are brimming with potential. Ha-cha-cha!

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As promised earlier, I've got some (North) Charleston tales to entertain. (I really need to get back in the habit of writing, as crazy stuff is happening all the time.) About a week ago, I was assigned with the task of manning the front desk in the Mayor's Office of the new city hall. Our receptionist/office assistant/non-generalizing term for "secretary" was out on va-cay, and my supervisor thought it'd be a good idea to throw me and the other VISTA in the line of duty. People call for the craziest crap at the Mayor's Office; and let's suffice to say that he can't fix your cable, get your aunt off crack, or personally endorse your crappy restaurant. But what's worse is when people actually show up. In person.

On a slow-moving Friday morning, I wander into the office about 8:55am and assume my position at the front. At 9:05am, "Holy Man," a tall older "gentleman," stumbles into the office. Literally.

"I need-ta see the ma'er," he boldy states, as I smell the whiskey on his breath.
Yeah? You and everybody else... "What can I do for you, sir?"
"I told ya! 'I need-ta see the ma'er!' I need to tell him this city hall is an abomination. This is the biggest slave labor monument since the pyramids!"
(insert incoherent babble here)
"Well, sir, he's out all day and won't be back til Monday. I can get your information and we'll see what we can do."

I hand him a pen and post-it note.

"Yeah, that's good. You know, the mayor knows me. He lent me .50 for a beer back in 1996. Hee-HEEE-lawdy! That's a good man!"
(more incoherent babble)

He scribbles down his name and number on the post-it and hands it to me. I look up and he's staring at me with big, blood-shot eyes. He doesn't blink.

"Is that all, sir?"
"Yes..." He begins to saunter off. "NO! Wait!" He whips back around...
"I need... I need 6 buses. Yes. Six Greyhound buses..."
"Okay, well, I'll pass this info on to the Transportation Department when I --"
"I NEED to take the chosen people of North Charleston to the promised land where Jesus walked. I need six buses to take the chosen people to EGYPT!" he cries as his hands fly in the air. "Are you sure the ma'ers not here? I had to climb up all these steps to talk to him."
His staring ensues.
"Nope. And from now on, I suggest you call up here to make an appointment. You have a good day now."

He slowly turns to head out the door. As he walks out the front entrance, he looks back one last time, looks the place up and down, and shouts: "Jerusalem!!!"

I kind of felt bad; I wasn't sure which would break his heart more: 1) that Jesus never really "walked" in Egypt as he was an infant when he was there, or 2) Greyhound buses aren't allowed outside the continental U.S. without higher approval, and I doubt we could get it.

Oh well.

This Ain't No Fairy Tale; My Tiara is on Back-Order.

I'm pretty sure I've just had the biggest "Sleeping Beauty" phase in recent memory. I somehow passed out, woke up, and it's halfway through September. School's in full swing, Labor Day came and went, and next week will mark my first month in Charleston - only 11 more to go. The last three weeks have been seriously surreal, and I constantly feel as if I'm wandering in a dreamlike state.

Further, the "real" world seems equally as bizarre: celebrities and politicians alike have acted completely out of character (or really, is this the embodiment of all those perpetuating stereotypes finally coming to a head?), a young woman returns after years of questions (and only brings more), icons have passed (I wonder if Robert Kennedy and Patrick Swayze ever met pre-afterlife), the best selling band of all time has been reincarnated into a video game (the only thing better would've been a Wii Fit game: the Abbey Road Challenge!) and the whole world goes up in a tizzy when the President tells kids to stay in school (but we still allow Lady Gaga to bastardize the notion of "individualism"... or is it PR hard at work?). Now I see why reality shows are so popular: The human race and its accompanying experiences are perfectly 'effed up.

And yet, I find myself jaded. Listless. I'm numb, and my self motivation -- the one thing I pride myself on -- is dwindling at an exponential rate. And I don't care....? Time and life keep on moving, but I've noticed it's going on without me.

At the risk of becoming one of those annoying blogger kids that talk about their feeeelings, I won't bore you with details. But I find that my position as a VISTA is not living up to its expectations - and as a result, neither am I. I signed up to fight poverty, better my community, enhance afterschool programs, and hopefully make the world go round a little better. But as of now, I'm doing stupid odd tasks and constantly being referred to as "the intern." I still don't have a work space and bum off other's when they're off convoluding at some important meeting. The Mayor's "personal effects" have an entire frickin' office, for crying out loud. It's a little disheartening that I packed up my life (again) for this opportunity to get paid in tacos, and I'm treated like a blithering idiot.

And jimminy crickets... maybe I am.

Once upon a dream, I thought I was adaptable, smart, and likeable. My Malificent has become the struggle with rapid and unexplained change, entering new communities where clearly I'm an outsider, and positioning myself to where people don't think I'm bubble-headed blonde "just-a waitin' for my big chance!" One of these days, I'll get a big smooch from that charming something or other, and maybe, just maybe I'll wake up and things will have changed for the better. And if not, I'm tracking down those delightful magical god-muthas and getting fitted for a transitioning blue and pink dress to take care of business myself... after a proper power beauty nap, that is.