in my self-congratulatory mood, imagined taking the leadership downtown to sit down with Harold and discuss the fate
of the city. Then, under a streetlight a few feet away, I saw the drunk from the meeting spinning around in slow circles,
looking down at his elongated shadow. I got out of my car and asked him if he needed some help getting home.
“I don’t need no help!” he shouted, trying to steady himself “Not from nobody, you understand me! Punk-ass
motherfucker...try to tell me shit...”
His voice trailed off. Before I could say anything more, he turned and began to wobble down the center of the road,
disappearing into the darkness.
CHAPTER TEN
W INTER CAME AND THE city turned monochrome-black trees against gray sky above white earth. Night now fell
in midafternoon, especially when the snowstorms rolled in, boundless prairie storms that set the sky close to the
ground, the city lights reflected against the clouds.
The work was tougher in such weather. Mounds of fine white powder blew through the cracks of my car, down my
collar and into the openings in my coat. On rounds of interviews, I never spent enough time in one place to thaw
properly, and parking spaces became scarce on the snow-narrowed streets-everyone, it seemed, had a cautionary tale
about fights breaking out over parking spaces after a heavy snow, the resulting brawl or shooting. Attendance at
evening meetings became more sporadic; people called at the last minute to say they had the flu or their car wouldn’t
start; those who did come looked damp and resentful. At times, driving home from such evenings, with the northern
gusts off the lake shaking my car across the lane dividers, I would momentarily forget where I was, my thoughts a
numbed reflection of the silence.
Marty suggested that I take more time off, build a life for myself away from the job. His concerns were professional,
he explained: Without some personal support outside the work, an organizer lost perspective and could quickly burn
out. There was something to what he said, for it was true that the people I met on the job were generally much older
than me, with a set of concerns and demands that created barriers to friendship. When I wasn’t working, the weekends
would usually find me alone in an empty apartment, making do with the company of books.
I didn’t heed Marty’s advice, though, perhaps because, as the bonds between myself and the leadership grew stronger,
I found them offering more than simple friendship. After meetings, I might go with one of the men to a local tavern to
watch the news or listen to oldies-the Temptations, the O’Jays-thump from a dinged-up corner jukebox. On Sunday, I’d
visit the various church services and let the women tease me over my confusion with communion and prayer. At a
Christmas party in the Gardens, I danced with Angela, Mona, and Shirley under a globe that sent sparkling beads across
the room; I swapped sports stories over stale cheese puffs and meatballs with husbands who had been reluctantly
dragged to the affair; I counseled sons or daughters on their college applications, and played with grandchildren who
sat on my knee.
It was during such times, when familiarity or weariness dissolved the lines between organizer and leader, that I began
to understand what Marty had meant when he insisted that I move toward the centers of people’s lives. I remember, for