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.