What We Not Supposed to Do

Some may say little kids aren't supposed to cook.

I walked into Pleasant Hope Baptist Church to the sight of children, huddled around a griddle, putting fresh bacon on the sizzling thing. The other kids either sat in a circle joking with each other, and one little boy was actually doing impressive head spins. I walked over to Pastor Heber Brown III, and introduced myself, where he gave me three options:  help with the food, run social media, or take photos. Both of my phones were dying, so I did the obvious thing and took photos of the kids making breakfast.

When the bacon was done, there was a brief intermission. One of the kids, Denzel, started showing everyone how to tie a tie. I took off my coat and grabbed a tie, seeing if he could show me. And, well, he did! A ten year old taught me how to tie a tie.

When breakfast was done, the kids threw their trash away and Moriah, one of the volunteers, Shannon, and I washed the dishes while the kids did their libations to the ancestors. 

Pastor Brown had been teaching the youth so much in the past two days. His spirit and love for the kids showed through his grace and patience. "When regular school is closed, Freedom School is open!" he'd shout, and the kids would follow right along.Any other person would've been frustrated and yelling, but he did what a lot of us won't do - let our kids be kids.

Black kids, Moriah, and I discussed, don't get the privilege of childhood, especially impoverished Black kids. Especially little Black girls. Constantly dehumanized, the rush to adulthood comes both externally and internally as our kids have to worry about judgement, performance, and excellence very young. The concept of innocence does not extend to Black kids. Non-Black kids that are loud are simply loud. Black kids that are loud are not just loud but ghetto, and for some reason (racism?) more intolerable. Black kids have to be the face of the entire Black community.

This is different from my experience serving children over the summer with Operation Help or Hush. (Read about it here.) Where the kids in Sandtown-Winchester were dead before they lived, these Freedom School kids might've had a thousands souls inside of them. They were playing and laughing and dancing and singing and cooking and being free. I pictured little Tamir playing with them, quickly changing the thought to something more peaceful.

The kids then got back to making breakfast. Under adult supervision, oranges were juiced, and eggs were whisked. The kids made waffles, scrambled eggs, and fresh orange juice. Shannon, one of the volunteers and one of the kids' parents, gave a miniature lesson on herbs and natural medicine.

The kids then got on the bus (I really want to see the Spike Lee movie) and headed downtown, where there was a protest action where demands were made of the Baltimore City Police Department. I rode in Moriah's car, where we had a great talk on American culture, capitalism, and Cuba (read her post on Cuba here, at ForHarriet). It was nice to be able to converse with someone on such a level. We talked about whether or not Brother Bernie was a real socialist or not, the Uprising, and the individualistic competition-driven culture that our country breeds. The exchange of thought, theory, and ideas felt freeing. This wasn't any elementary exchange of racism and concepts that should've been understood in sixth grade, but actual critique and international experience on a macro and micro level.

The kids, leading the show, sang their song about the RBG from Jones Falls all the way to City Hall, loud and proud. Cameras and a podium waited for their grand entrance. Black and Latino youth were behind the podium as several young leaders spoke about the injustices they faced by the police department, along with solid concrete demands.

After the speeches were made, I was able to meet Dayvon Love from Leaders of a Beautiful Struggle, a group that looks to raise community voices to promote change. I did a brief interview with The Real News Network, and we were on our way to the buses. 

Before we got to the buses, the kids were able to see Eddie Conway, a former Black Panther. Many of the kids shook his hands and thanked him for what he did with a reverence that resembled that of the American and the American soldier. The kids had questions about Baltimore and the meal programs and the Party itself, and seeing the younger people so curious and passionate excited me. These kids weren't 15,16,and 17. They ranged from 7-14! 

I rode to the Freddie Gray Empowerment Center with Lawrence Rodgers, an evangelist at another church in Baltimore. There was interesting conversation there as well, as we talked about KFCs closing and homelessness in the city. We rode to the Freddie Gray Empowerment Center, conveniently located just a block from my childhood house on Eutaw Place. 

Freedom School closed out with each kid saying what they learned, liked, or will remember forever during the two days. Most kids said meeting Eddie Conway was the biggest highlight. The recognition and affirmation from elders seemed to provide a shelter for the kids. 

The whole day felt like the second part of a spiritual cleanse. Just the night before, I was singing songs and cracking jokes with my poetry friends while making a banner for the Homecoming Parade. And for the next day to be filled with such beautiful energy felt like a blessing.

Black people aren't supposed to be doing things like this. The institution of American chattel slavery was supposed to be generational, extending from our grandparents to our grandchildren and to their grandchildren. This is what the Confederacy fought to uphold; this is what the culture of our country promotes. We aren't supposed to celebrate and love each other. But we weren't supposed to run to the North either. We weren't supposed to sit in at segregated lunch counters. We weren't supposed to fight back. We weren't supposed to sneak around and learn how to read. We weren't supposed to be able to tell our own story.

Some say kids aren't supposed to cook, but sometimes it's best to do what you not supposed to do.

For Jeremiah and the Kids Who May Have Died Before They Lived

Today was my second day volunteering with Operation HelpOrHush, giving out food to the Gilmor Homes community in Sandtown, Baltimore. The name may not sound familiar, but this is where Freddie Gray lived. Yes, the same hashtag Freddie Gray that caused the media to run to Baltimore and make a frenzy out of everything. The air was hot, but it was fine. I walked past empty abandoned house after empty abandoned house. As I walked from Upton/Avenue-Market Metro Station to the where the tables were set up, I saw death. Little dead kids. Old dead adults. Everything and everyone just looked dead. Being in Baltimore, I was used to seeing the walking dead - Lexington Market had enough zombies to make its own apocalypse. But this was different. The death was the same death in Lexington Market, but even the environment was death. Each apartment was a casket where the dead rose and fell, ate and drank, lived and died. 

We served the kids first. Hotdogs and hamburgers came and went as I poured relish, mustard, and ketchup. It was an odd experience. Some kids seemed ashamed to ask for condiments. Some of the kids didn't say anything at all. I asked some of the kids their names. I hardly got a response on the condiments, so it shouldn't be too much a surprise that I didn't really get any names.

But then, an older woman with a child who couldn't be no older than three came up. I don't remember whether she got him a hamburger or a hotdog, but I poured ketchup on something. The woman then said "Jeremiah, you want relish or mustard?" and the little boy shook his head. Anyone who knows me knows as much as I dislike my name, I love the name Jeremiah, so I smiled first and said, "His name's Jeremiah?". The little boy then looked at me. He was short. Had a good bit of hair from what I remember. But he looked at me, and for some reason, it felt like he looked into my eyes. 

The woman nodded her head. She was one of the nicer adults we fed. I could imagine her being a maternal figure in the community, the one who looks after everyone's kids and makes sure they doing right. I told her my name - Jeremy - and how it was cool. Jeremy helping Jeremiah. 

The strangest thing was just seeing a face with a hint of vitality. Amongst so much death, I saw life in little Jeremiah who very much didn't want relish or mustard. I didn't catch too many eyes that day. Most of the faces I'd seen looked aged beyond belief. The skin seemed to drag as if they came out the womb angry and upset; as if gravity was somehow stronger in their space on the planet. 

Dealing with many of the adults seemed to be a challenge. I thought about my respective twenty year-old youth and my environments and my upbringing and all the blessings I had in my life. I thought about who these people may have been at my age and how they got to where they are now. I saw death and poverty. In a few I saw entitlement, angry at us for running out of hamburgers when they came late to the line. In a few I saw impatience, catching the slightest bit of attitude at the pace of the line. I wondered if they went to college. If they had internet access or even heard of #BlackLivesMatter. I wondered what they thought of the uprising. I wondered a lot about them. 

But more than the adults, I think about the children. I think about the future that lies in them. I think about the potential they may have. I wondered if any of them liked art. I wanted to ask. I could teach them art - it wouldn't be my first time. I thought about the life they represented, the spaces in America they'd take as we vacate ours. The children who might being dentists or the next big CEO. 

And so I write this for them. I write to keep my spirits up. I write in hopes that you'll take time to look at the ghettos in your own communities. I write this for little Jeremiah and the kids who may have died before they lived. For the kids who may be alive, but can't truly live. For the kids who's parents come home tired from work, or for the kids whose parent's choose to stay on welfare for government benefits, or for the kids who feel ashamed to take free things because they can't afford to get it themselves. 

For those kids in Sandtown, Baltimore, I'll see you Monday.