Positive Thinking At Raceway Hell

    
I'm fairly new to blogging, and I’m still trying to find my voice. I sat down to write a simple entry, but instead, my thoughts keep going back to the five year stint I lived in an apartment complex in what was supposed to be a nice area in Louisville, Ky. I’ll call it Raceway Hell. Its children and all their needs consumed me when I was there, and they stay in my thoughts and continue to haunt me.
　
Fast-forward my life almost a year from my last blog entry, from an enchanted day of happy children and snowball fights, to another way of life and a much different reality. On that day I had lived in an apartment complex for a few years, always trying to move out, and never quite making it. But no matter how hard I tried, something held me back, and I gradually understood that I had a very special reason to be there. The children.
     On that day in February I had a total of twenty-odd children coming to my door on a regular basis, at all hours of the day and night. One impish little girl would show up every couple of days just to flash me a rakish smile and bound away, satisfied that I was still there, and should she be too bored, I was still available to read stories or do crafts. She and her brother were highly intelligent, and lorded over the other children like nobody's business, confident in the love of their grandparents and extended family. Others were not so lucky and it showed in everything they did.
     Some would show up just because they heard there was free food, candy, games, and even toys if they presented their schoolwork. They were often rude and as dirty in mouth as their clothing was, and though they were skittish of any show of caring or kindness, they gladly grabbed the free sandwich or homemade cupcakes, and quickly crammed them, showing empty hands and demanding more. Others were loved starved and showed it, bugging the crap out of me day and night.
     I was sometimes startled to hear a soft rapping at the door in the middle of the night. On several cold nights I found "Josh" huddled in a ball at my door. He always said he had forgot his key and couldn't wake his mother up. At first I asked nosy questions as I bundled him in a quilt and gave him hot chocolate. But my fears just made him uncomfortable and didn’t help anything. When I tried to talk to his mother I only made it worse for him. (The child was always being screamed out or threatened with a belt). I learned to keep my sound shut, give him a hug, and whatever need he might have at the time. It always amazed me that the thirteen year old that was so vulnerable and respectable with me was also supposed to be the terror of the complex, supposedly setting fires in the buildings, vandalizing cars, or breaking windows. I never saw him do any of it and I would like to think it wasn't true.
     The family from Africa was a complex potpourri of conflicting signals. Two sisters lived together in a two bedroom with all their children and whatever adult might be visiting from the mother country. That the children were loved was never doubted by anyone, especially the four girls and their handicapped oler brother. They ranged in age from the two year old baby that stubbornly followed the others everywhere, to the eight year old ring leader, who kept them all exploring the apartment complex all day long. If there was light in the day, then "Alia" was going to make full use of it, and drag in whatever kid happened to be around. Unfortunately, no matter how much I, her mother, or anyone else tried to talk to her, she could not imagine that "bad people" might be hiding, and that it was dangerous for little girls to wander around without supervision. She would look up with her huge eyes, agree to everything I tried to tell her, flash me a toothy grin, and race off to look for her next adventure. After constant complaints from the apartment managers and anyone that lived within three buildings, their exasperated mother finally decided to move back to Africa. I doubt the girl could ever have been "Americanized" enough to be truly safe. Their going left a much quieter neighborhood, and a huge gap in my heart.
     When the girls left, it seemed to act as a catalyst for others in the neighborhood. Things in our complex had been growing steadily worse by the month. Not only had "specially trained" managers been moved in to deal with "people like us," (we actually complained when our toilets wouldn't flush!), but living conditions were beginning to be not only difficult, but also, dangerous. Drug dealers, pit bulls, and guns had probably always been there, but they now flaunted the fact that we could not rid our little community of them. So I watched as one by one, all but a handful of the children I had watched out for moved safely away.
The final straw for me came last November, when a loose pit attacked my part lab on one of our numerous walks. Copper was lucky. He survived the nightmare with a ripped stomach and the intestines showing, not to mention a large vet bill and two months locked in a cage and forced to wear a “donut” so he wouldn’t rip his stitches out. Three months later it would have seemed like a bad dream, had it not been for the owner who continued to bring his pit out indiscriminately, taunting us with threats of what he would do when they caught us alone. Despite the children who still needed me-who still knocked at my door for a hot breakfast before school, or a hug and bandage when they cut their knee, I had to finally get out.
     I have pictures of all of them, and like small ghosts of a frozen dimension, they stare out at me from the frames with huge smiles and shadowed eyes. I remember with satisfaction the times I was able to carve out slices of happiness for them, when they could play safely with each other without fear.
     I like to think one of my largest accomplishments at Raceway Hell was the day I looked over the heads of laughing children, playing in a sandbox I had fought for them to have, (one of many arguments that I eventually lost), chattering in six different languages, not really understanding each other, but having a ball anyway. Now and then a high-pitched wail of indignation would go up, when one of the higher energy kids would steal away a ball or a bucket. When this happened all eyes would immediately turn to me to rectify the problem, trust in their eyes and voices, none of them doubting that I couldn't make it right for them. I would look around at the adult faceslooking out from doorways or windows, other faces never present when they should have been, and I wanted to say to them, "Watch your children. See how easy it is for them to play together? Why can't all of you do the same?" One day I hope my little minions, as my daughter liked to call them, will remember that magical time, and do what their parents won't. And just maybe they'll remember me too.
    

　
　
　

I Can't Ask For Better Than That

I just sat down from helping my neighborhood kids build their first snowman. There’s talk of forts and snowball fights later in the afternoon. The bush in front of my window is loaded with birds.(It could have something to do with the feed I just gave them). My boxer puppy is draped over my knee, her nose occasionally twitching. Everyone important to me is safe, fed, and warm. I am content. I am grateful. I can’t ask for better than that.