Will let the silence build for several minutes. “Anybody want to share their thoughts?” he repeated.
People looked down at the table uncomfortably.
“Okay,” Will said. “I’ll share something that’s been on my mind for a while. Nothing big-just memories. You know,
my folks weren’t rich or nothing. We lived out in Altgeld. But when I think back on my own childhood, I remember
some really good times. I remember going to Blackburn Forest with my folks to pick wild berries. I remember making
skating carts with my cut buddies out of empty fruit crates and old roller skate wheels and racing around the parking
lot. I remember going on field trips at school, and on the holidays meeting all the families in the park, everybody out
and nobody scared, and then in the summers sleeping out in the yard together if it got too hot inside. A lot of good
memories...seemed like I was smiling all the time, laughing-”
Will broke off suddenly and bowed his head. I thought he was preparing to sneeze, but when he raised his head back
up, I saw tears rolling down his cheeks. He continued in a cracking voice, “And you know, I don’t see kids smiling
around here no more. You look at ’em listen to ’em...they seem worried all the time, mad about something. They got
nothing they trust. Not their parents. Not God. Not themselves. And that’s not right. That just ain’t the way things
supposed to be...kids not smiling.”
He stopped again and pulled a handkerchief from his hip pocket to blow his nose. Then, as if the sight of this big man
weeping had watered the dry surface of their hearts, the others in the room began speaking about their own memories in
solemn, urgent tones. They talked about life in small Southern towns: the corner stores where men had gathered to
learn the news of the day or lend a hand to women with their groceries, the way adults looked after each other’s
children (“Couldn’t get away with nothing, ’cause your momma had eyes and ears up and down the whole block”), the
sense of public decorum that such familiarity had helped sustain. In their voices was no little bit of nostalgia, elements
of selective memory; but the whole of what they recalled rang vivid and true, the sound of shared loss. A feeling of
witness, of frustration and hope, moved about the room from mouth to mouth, and when the last person had spoken, it
hovered in the air, static and palpable. Then we all joined hands, Mr. Green’s thick, callused hand in my left, Mrs.
Turner’s, slight and papery to the touch, in my right, and together we asked for the courage to turn things around.
I helped Will and Mary put back the chairs, rinse out the coffee pot, lock up, and turn off the lights. Outside, the night
was cold and clear. I turned up my collar and quickly evaluated the meeting: Will needed to watch the time; we had to
research the issue of city services before the next meeting and interview everyone who had come. At the end of my
checklist, I put my arm around Will’s shoulders.
“That reflection at the end was pretty powerful, Will.”
He looked at Mary and they both smiled. “We noticed you didn’t share anything with the group,” Mary said.
“The organizer’s supposed to keep a low profile.”
“Who says?”
“It’s in my organizer’s handbook. Come on, Mary, I’ll give you a ride home.”
Will mounted his bike and waved good-bye, and Mary and I drove the four blocks to her house. I let her out in front of
her door and watched her take a few steps before I stretched across the passenger seat and rolled down the window.
“Hey, Mary.”
She came back and bent down to look at me.
barré
(Barré)
#1