Helping Malik

A couple of weeks ago, as I was walking our dog around the block, I encountered a young man.  It was one of those miserable days in what has been a miserable winter.  True, we were inching toward spring, and had had a day or two with temperatures above freezing.  But this day which had promised to be a touch warmer turned out to be cold—with a wind that cut through my jacket.

As this young man approached, it was evident that he must be a student at the nearby high school walking home. We live near a large apartment complex, and frequently have students cutting through our neighborhood.

What caught my eye about this young man was that he had NO coat on.  He had his arms tucked down inside his pants, in an effort to keep warm.  I always make it a point to acknowledge the students I see walking through our neighborhood—so, I said to him “you look cold.”

His answer surprised me a bit—“I’m lost.”  Thinking he might want directions, I asked where he was going.  “To ____ High School.”  Now, he was walking from our school district high school and the one he named was another school which is over three miles from where we were.  Such a walk could take him over an hour.

And he was walking.  Without a coat. On a cold day.

Well, I said, I know where that high school is—why do you want to go there?

So I can get to the place I need to be, he answered.

I asked why he didn’t have a jacket on, and he shrugged with that mixture of nonchalance and cluelessness one sometimes sees in young teens.

I couldn’t just let this go—so I told him to walk with me to my house, a few doors from where we were.  As we walked, I asked him his name—Malik.  I asked what grade he was in—9^th.  And I asked about favorite subjects, which teachers he had.

As soon as we got to my house, I asked him to wait, while I could get a jacket for him.  While he waited outside, I popped in my house, and quickly filled my husband in on the situation.  Immediately, my husband said he would drive Malik to the other school. 

My husband then went to the basement, and got a jacket for Malik.  Then we went outside to Malik, who very quickly put on the jacket.  We told Malik to keep the jacket and that my husband would drive him.

I then asked—where does he need to go from the other high school?  Oh, from there I can walk to Zion Church, he said.

My husband and I knew exactly where he meant, so my husband said he would drive Malik there.  Thinking that Malik might want to tell someone he was getting a ride, I asked if he wanted to call his mother, but he demurred saying she was at work.

So, my husband headed off with Malik, took him to the church where Malik went up to the door and rang a bell, knew what to say to get in, and went inside.

We haven’t seen him since. Every now and then, I have thought about Malik.  I hope he stays the sweet young man he seemed to be—only with a touch more common sense in remembering to bring a jacket to school on cold days. 

So, What's Different

Along with many other folks this morning, I am pondering the significance of the "not guilty" verdict in the George Zimmerman trial.

First, I must say that I wholeheartedly wish the news' fascination with this story would be focused elsewhere.  There are so many topics around the world far more worthy of laser focus than the story of one misguided "citizen" who patrolled his neighborhood on the lookout for "punks." 

But, we all know that the 24/7 news cycle simply needs, make that creates, these stories--or else the perpetual breathless approach to news might shrivel up and go away.  Oh, there's a thought.

Back to this trial and its perhaps all-too-predictable verdict.

I have been puzzling over the details of this story ever since it first emerged.  I have tried to understand what kind of neighborhood George Zimmerman lived in that he saw himself as the last bastion of civilization.  There he was, patrolling the streets of his neighborhood trying to keep the barbarians at bay.  And when he failed--after all, a young man still walked through that gated community for all Zimmerman's watchfulness--he decided he had to take "the law" into his own hands.  And since he was armed, he felt invincible.  

So, what's different about our neighborhood--the place where we live?

Perhaps we have not had break-ins.  That was part of the dynamic that George Zimmerman perceived that gave rise to his determination to patrol the neighborhood.  But, no, we too have had break-ins in our neighborhood.

We have had several break-ins.  At least one included a young man knocking on the door of one house in our neighborhood and, flashing a gun, demanding money.  Another break-in occurred while neighbors were at a family funeral (which alerted us to the fact that some people are so coldly opportunistic that they read obituary notices to see who won't be home). 

Perhaps we don't have young men walking through our neighborhood.  That too was part of the dynamic for George Zimmerman.  But we have young people, mostly young men, some of whom are white and some of whom are black.  So, in George Zimmerman's parlance, we too have "punks."

So what is different?

Well, for one thing we do not have a gated community.  We are bounded on two sides by apartment complexes, which makes our neighborhood seem like a convenient short-cut path.  Not being a gated community is just a small difference.

What really sets us apart, I believe, is the fact that we FEEL like a neighborhood.  I don't know everyone by name, but I know many people.  So, when I see someone walking through the neighborhood, I say "hi."  I realize I don't know everyone I talk to, but I want to be friendly in a non-threatening way, which carries its own message.  The message is "I am paying attention to you, and to who is here in my neighborhood."

When someone is away from his or her home in our neighborhood, we watch each other's houses.  In fact, for immediate neighbors, we frequently make a lap around the outside of the house, just checking to make sure all is in order. 

I am not naive.  Being neighborly doesn't shield our neighborhood from petty crime.  But not assuming that anyone who walks through our neighborhood is intent of committing a crime--well, that helps to keep things from escalating out of control, until someone arms himself, decides he can determine a passer-by's motivation, and with a side-arm to trail that person, and eventually "defend" himself.  That's what is different.

Might it just be that a mind-set of violence leads to a culture of violence which results in a commission of violence?

The Old Neighborhood

For someone who grew up moving back and forth between continents (in my 12 years of basic education, I attended 7 schools in different locations)--I have stayed put in the same area for more than 4 decades.

My husband and I moved to the south central Pennsylvania, when he was finished with college and beginning his first job. Initially, we lived in an apartment, like many newly-weds. But after several years, we decided it was time to buy a house. Our son was just one year old when we began house hunting. We were decidedly not wealthy--my husband was teaching public school, and I was teaching college part time. Then, as now, part time college teaching pays woefully little. And public school teachers had only just won the right to bargain and strike if need be to raise salaries. So, we did not have loads of disposable income. We are also very sensible people, and made sure we looked at houses we could afford. The concept of buying so far over one's income level as to be "underwater" had not even been invented.

We were shown some very sorry houses--one tiny house with grey stone exterior had well water and a septic tank, not unusual. BUT this house was in a suburban neighborhood where all the houses around it were on city water and sewer. Another house, at that time 25 years old, had its original furnace. My husband envisioned a wheezing failing furnace and us with our restricted finances.

Finally, we found the right house--a one-story ranch house in an integrated neighborhood that was about 15 years old. The owners of the house that we were looking at were a former priest and a former nun who had found the strictures imposed on them by the Catholic Church to be untenable--so they left their vows and got married. They had been active in the anti-war movement during the Vietnam era, and had entertained some of the luminaries who came to town when the Harrisburg Seven were being tried. One of the people whom they housed over-night was Father Philip Berrigan--one of the seven-- and they had entertained his brother Father Daniel Berrigan.

On a side note, a dear friend of ours--who gave her son the middle name of Berrigan--when she visited our old house walked out on our lawn, and said--Daniel Berrigan walked here. Anyway, that's not why we bought the house. But it was an interesting back story to that place.

We lived there for about seven years. We weren't really looking for a new place, but one day--when our son was 8, we were out bike riding, and came upon this tiny new development very near our old house. We saw a house with a for sale sign in front. We got off our bikes, peered in through the windows--and thus was born an idea. Why not move?

Well, we did. When we left the old neighborhood, it was with a touch of sadness--leave takings are always thus. But it was a house we were leaving. Not really a neighborhood. Oh, true, we had neighbors--we knew their names, we said hi and such. But we never really got to know anyone. Almost all the yards were fenced in--a kind of metaphor for the lack of contact between neighbors. The only people we ever had inside our house were one couple (whose husband was also a public school teacher), and one little neighbor boy who wandered into our kitchen one day. I turned around--and there he was. I asked if his parents knew he was out--and he said, no. Strange. I just walked him home--not surprisingly, his parents were as blasé about his being out and about as he was.

The new neighborhood to which we moved--well, we have lived here for more than 30 years. And we know just about everyone in our neighborhood. Given our preference, we'd just as soon not move again!