But it was away from all that, as we prepared for our meeting with the CHA director, that I began to see something
wonderful happening. The parents began talking about ideas for future campaigns. New parents got involved. The
block-by-block canvass we’d planned earlier was put into effect, with Linda and her swollen belly waddling door-to-
door to collect complaint forms; Mr. Lucas, unable to read the forms himself, explaining to neighbors how to fill them
out properly. Even those who’d opposed our efforts began to come around: Mrs. Reece agreed to cosponsor the event,
and Reverend Johnson allowed some of his members to make an announcement at Sunday service. It was as though
Sadie’s small, honest step had broken into a reservoir of hope, allowing people in Altgeld to reclaim a power they had
had all along.
The meeting was to be held in Our Lady’s gymnasium, the only building in Altgeld that could accommodate the three
hundred people we hoped would turn up. The leaders arrived an hour early, and we went over our demands one last
time-that a panel of residents work with CHA to assure containment of asbestos, and that CHA establish a firm
timetable for making repairs. As we discussed a few last-minute details, Henry, the maintenance man, waved me over
to the public address system.
“What’s the matter?”
“System’s dead. A short or something.”
“So we don’t have a microphone?”
“Not outta here. Gonna have to make do with this thing here.” He pointed to a solitary amplifier, the size of a small
suitcase, with a loose microphone that hung by a single, frayed cord. Sadie and Linda came up beside me and stared
down at the primitive box.
“You’re joking,” Linda said.
I tapped on the mike. “It’ll be okay. You guys will just have to speak up.” Then, looking down at the amp again, I
said, “Try not to let the director hog the microphone, though. He’ll end up talking for hours. Just hold it up to him after
you’ve asked the questions. You know, like Oprah.”
“If nobody comes,” Sadie said, looking at her watch, “we won’t need no mike.”
People came. From all across the Gardens, people came-senior citizens, teenagers, tots. By seven o’clock five hundred
people had arrived; by seven-fifteen, seven hundred. TV crews began setting up cameras, and the local politicians on
hand asked us for a chance to warm up the crowd. Marty, who had come to watch the event, could barely contain
himself.
“You’ve really got something here, Barack. These people are ready to move.”
There was just one problem: The director still hadn’t arrived. Ms. Broadnax said he was caught in traffic, so we
decided to go ahead with the first part of the agenda. By the time the preliminaries were over, it was almost eight. I
could hear people starting to grumble, fanning themselves in the hot, airless gym. Near the door, I saw Marty trying to
lead the crowd in a chant. I pulled him aside.
“What are you doing?”
“You’re losing people. You have to do something to keep them fired up.”
“Sit down, will you please.”
barré
(Barré)
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