Just Messing Around

Yesterday as I was walking Asher, I ran into R., a man who walks around Franklinton selling flowers. We have talked a couple of time. He kept asking me what I was doing all the way on Hawkes, so I am guessing he thought I lived at 123. R. gave me a flower, and I ran inside to scrounge up some money to buy a few more. I legitimately never carry cash, mostly because it is easier for me to tell people who ask that I don't have money then to try to figure out if I should give it to them. But tonight I found a couple of dollars and we spoke awhile in front of the house as I picked out carnations.

After Brian and I pulled up our garden, we put the remaining tomatoes and peppers that we couldn't use right away on our front porch. Most of the tomatoes were still green and needed to ripen. We've given some away to neighbors, but now they are looking a little grim. R. started eyeing them so I told him to take as many as he wants, although I warned him that they are starting to go bad.

He gave me a slightly accusing look. "They are going bad. You guys are just messing around."

Then he opened up the plastic bag he was carrying to reveal two gorgeous heads of romaine lettuce. Not the crappy iceberg lettuce, but really dark, rich stuff. I commented on how good it looked, and then he tried to give me half of it.

While this was a quick interaction, it left a strong impression on me. Mainly because....

1. At least in part, we are just messing around. Brian and I love the idea of gardening and responsible food production, but we get so busy that we do a terrible job of preserving it. Letting produce rot on our porch is a crime. My goal for next year is to produce more food and make sure that we can or freeze the excess.

2. R. had two amazing heads of lettuce in his pack and was really excited to get more produce. This just reiterates the importance of all of the community garden projects the community is working on, especially Franklinton Gardens. I probably should have taken some of the lettuce he offered as trade, which would have been a more equal interaction.

3. As R. was going, he looked back and said, "you are all so nice." As Brian and I biked home a few days ago, some kids on the street yelled, "hey Ashley and Greg!" I am not sure how our neighbors conceptualize our group, but something tells me we are interchangable.

Finding Jerusalem Slim

You call me Christ Jesus with intelligence slim
But I was a rebel called Jerusalem Slim
And my brother: the outcast, the rebel the tramp
And not the religious, the scab or the scamp
-Nineteenth century Hobo poem

I am taking a break from editing chapter three and starting research on my last dissertation chapter. This is the mystery chapter, since nobody on my committee (myself included) liked the proposal. So I think I am going to write about hobo communities in the late nineteenth century, if I can find enough about female hoboes. I will also look at the photos taken of homeless people by Riis, etc.

Hoboes: People who wandered looking for work
Tramps: People who wandered and asked for handouts
Bums: People who stayed in one place but didn't work

Churches were often the last resort for hoboes since they had to do hard labor and listen to long sermons before getting food. The food they received was often meager, like bologna sandwiches and thin soup. However, many of them were spiritual and referred to Jesus as "Jerusalem Slim." They saw him as a hobo who wandered around and shared his story, just like they did.

Long-haired preachers come out tonight.
Try to tell you what's wrong and what's right
But when you ask for something to eat
They will answer you in voices so sweet.

You will eat bye and bye,
In that glorious land in the sky;
Work and pray, live on hay
You'll get pie in the sky when you die.
-Joe Hill ballad, "The Preacher and the Slave"

There is a church protesting our street church. As far as we can tell, it is because St. John's doesn't require any religious commitment before giving out food. They stand across the street holding signs during the service. It is hard to know how to respond.

We are trying to get back into going to street church. It is really the most authentic spiritual experience I have had, but it has been really hard to get into going to any kind of church lately. I feel like Sundays are the only days we have to figure things out at home and relax a little, and we are never sure what form our spirituality should take. Everywhere I go in Franklinton, I see Jerusalem Slim.

Coming Home!

Quick blog post from the airport!

We are getting ready to head back to Columbus from Boston. It has been a busy couple of weeks. Last week we were in Michigan with my college roommates, which was awesome. It was nice to get caught up and spend some time relaxing. I am lucky to still be able to hang out with my college friends.

We have spent this week in Boston! I LOVE it! As per my facebook status, our new plan is to put a lot of pressure on our future children so they feel like they need to go to Harvard to get our approval. Then we can visit a lot. There is something historical everywhere you go. Ashley and Greg were awesome and showed us around. Greg's parents, Jan and Tim, made us feel like part of the family. We went to Concord and saw Walden Pond, Sleepy Hollow Cemetery, and toured Louisa May Alcott's Orchard House. It was incredible to walk where Emerson, Thoreau, Hawthorne, and the Alcotts all hung out. What an amazing group of minds. They spent so much time debating the same issues we are worried about, but I think they spent less time dance partying. I am sure that is the only difference. I will post pictures when I get home!

At Harvard, I read through Abba Alcott's journal fragments and autobiography, and some newspaper clippings about the family. I will probably not post pictures of those since I am pretty paranoid about all of the papers I signed saying I wouldn't distribute the images. I got to hold some pressed flowers from Anna's wedding (Meg in Little Women) and some flowers marking the diary entry after Lizzie's (Beth) death. I was actually tearing up in the library, but don't tell the real Harvard people. Diary entries are tough to read when you know the outcome. Abba kept writing about how Lizzie was rallying and I was like, oh dear, she is not. I can't believe that I got to read the Alcott material for myself! I am going to incorporate the information in my chapter tomorrow and then finish drafting chapter three for my writing group meeting next week.

As much fun as I have had the past couple of weeks, I am glad it is September and I am on my way home. I am looking forward to the fall and getting back to a regular routine. I miss everyone!

Love Song for Jane Addams

And then there was the night

the city barn burnt down,

charred horses screaming

who couldn't be shot without official permission

and no one could get the officials

out of bed.

So they called you. Never mind

the prostitutes, illegitimate babies,

kindergartens and reading clubs.

It was the way you stood there

stone-faced, all chi rho cross and conscience

until the final silence came. Your knowledge

of what it took to end

the suffering.

When you said

we never tire of doing

what we know is right

I know you meant it.

But when you get this next gift

please keep it for yourself.

No Solutions

I haven't posted in awhile, but I somehow always want to blog when I am supposed to be actually writing my dissertation. I wrote a pretty big section today, though, so I think I will take a break!

When we were driving home on Tuesday, we saw a middle-aged man in a nice car who obviously was looking for a prostitute. He pulled over on Martin, right next to Sullivant, and without thinking I pulled over right behind him. He swerved out and kept driving, but by the time we circled around he had a woman in his car. So we followed him back to Bellows until he finally pulled over to let us pass. We looked him in the eye as we drove by. He was laughing. I couldn't see the expression on the woman's face.

I am not sure what we were trying to accomplish by following him. I didn't want him to get out of the car and talk to us. I really didn't want to start a fight and I knew he was still going to pick up a sex worker that afternoon whether we followed him or not. I guess we wanted him to know that someone was watching him and maybe make him a little nervous. I don't know why he was laughing, but I can't stop thinking about it.

We just finished a powerful conflict resolution class taught by our friend Kyle. A lot of it took place in the spring when I was too emotionally drained to attend a lot of the classes. I wish I made it to more. The conversations I remember most are the ones we had about sex work in our community. I feel so violent just thinking about the abuses to women in our neighborhood that it is hard to imagine a peaceful solution. Or any solution at all.

On a happier note, the goats seem to be doing well! We are getting them fixed up in the backyard. This weekend we need to fence off our house because they love nibbling on the shingles! When Jane Addams first became socially conscious she got a herd of sheep hoping to become more connected to the land. Unfortunately, she didn't know anything about sheet and they all got hoof rot. I am trying to make sure that that doesn't happen! I still have a lot of reading to do, but I have at least figured out how to trim their hooves. De-worming them has been more of a challenge, but it has been a good experience so far!

America, it's hard to get your attention politely

"Patriotics" is my favorite fourth of July poem, and possibly my favorite poem about America. Dr. Baker was my senior writing project director at Denison and is an inspiring teacher and writer. His class on Whitman and Dickinson is one of the major reasons I decided to study nineteenth century American lit. He taught all of us many meaningful lessons, but unfortunately the only two things I can remember him saying are:

1. Emily Dickinson makes Sylvia Plath look like a Disney character.

2. Gin and tonics are great summer drinks.

He took my writing group out for a drink right before graduation and ordered a gin and tonic, and for the entire first year of my M.A program I ordered gin and tonics when the students went out (which wasn't very often). I thought they were really gross, but they seemed literary to me after Dr. Baker ordered one. I figured it was either that or straight vodka like Esther orders at the beginning of The Bell Jar. Oh 22 year old Heather, so much to learn.

Now I am old and I love gin and tonics, and I still love this poem. I usually teach it at the beginning of my American lit classes to begin a discussion about American culture. Students usually read it as a pretty straightforward critique of America: the war mongering, the class discrepancies, the innocent victims of capitalism and personal violence.

Then we talk about the last line and I ask for the two possible meanings of the word "agape." It can mean "with the mouth wide open as in surprise or wonder" or it can mean the highest form of spiritual love, the love of Christ or the unselfish love of people towards each other. That usually makes the conversation more complicated.

Like my relationship with America. But I will let Dr. Baker explain.

Patriotics by David Baker

Yesterday, a little girl got slapped to death by her daddy,

out of work, alcoholic, and estranged two towns down river.

America, it's hard to get your attention politely.

America, the beautiful night is about to blow up

and the cop who brought the man down with a shot to the chops

is shaking hands, dribbling chaw across his sweaty shirt,

and pointing cars across the courthouse grass to park.

It's the Big One one more time, July the 4th,

our country's perfect holiday, so direct a metaphor for war,

we shoot off bombs, launch rockets from Drano cans,

spray the streets and neighbors' yards with the machine-gun crack

of fireworks, with rebel yells and beer. In short, we celebrate.

It's hard to believe. But so help the soul of Thomas Paine,

the entire county must be here---the acned faces of neglect,

the halter-tops and ties, the bellies, badges, beehives,

jacked-up cowboy boots, yes, the back-up singers of democracy

all gathered to brighten in unambiguous delight

when we attack the calm and pointless sky. With terrifying vigor

the whistle-stop across the river will lob its smaller arsenal

halfway back again. Some may be moved to tears.

We'll clean up fast, drive home slow, and tomorrow

get back to work, those of us with jobs, convicting the others

in the back rooms of our courts and malls--yet what

will be left of that one poor child, veteran of no war

but her family's own? The comfort of a welfare plot,

a stalk of wilting prayers? Our fathers' dreams come true as

nightmare.

So the first bomb blasts and echoes through the streets and shrubs:

red, white, and blue sparks shower down, a plague

of patriotic bugs. Our thousand eyeballs burn aglow like punks.

America, I'd swear I don't believe in you, but here I am,

and here you are, and here we stand again, agape.

Swallowed and digested

"Years ago I was much entertained by a story told at the Chicago Woman's Club by one of its ablest members in the discussion following a paper of mine on 'The Outgrowths of Toynbee Hall.' She said that when she was a little girl playing in her mother's garden, she one day discovered a small toad who seemed to her very forlorn and lonely, although she did not in the least know how to comfort him, she reluctantly left him to his fate; later in the day, quite at the other end of the garden, she found a large toad, also apparently without family and friends. With a heart full of tender sympathy, she took a stick and by exercising infinite patience and some skill, she finally pushed the little toad through the entire length of the garden into the company of the big toad, when, to her inexpressible horror and surprise, the big toad opened his mouth and swallowed the little one. The moral of the tale was clear applied to people who lived 'where they did not naturally belong,' although I protested that was exactly what we wanted-to be swallowed and digested, to disappear into the bulk of the people." -Jane Addams, Twenty Years at Hull-House

Sometimes it seems like Franklinton is swallowing us whole this summer. People are shooting each other. Families are screaming in the streets. Chickens are pecking each other to death. It has been a rough couple of weeks.

I am reading about Jane Addams for the chapter I am working on now. It takes me a long time because I can identify so much with her, a privileged women who loved literature and culture but felt drawn to a life in the slums. A lot of scholars suggest that too close of an identification with your subject leads to bad analysis. I'm sure a lot of scholars would also suggest that constantly stopping your work because kids are knocking on your door leads to bad analysis, too, so I try not to think too much about it.

Here is to disappearing into the bulk of the people!