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| Flint, MI 2013 |
What is a reflection but the picture I see in
the puddles? The picture is filled, edge-to-edge; I am there, looking back at
myself. Around me is the background: the living city, the events happening
around me, the people on the street. The water gathers on a foundation, without
which it would have washed away. I ponder Flint, and how the images that are
echoed to me have changed since my way here was made.
Ask me to stand on shaking ground
my feet will falter
but I could stand firm
on peaceful earth, strong, still and good
There was a time, I have been told, when this
city shone in the glory of a booming car industry, in wealth and success, and
in a strong middle class. The brick was freshly laid and the sidewalks were
smooth. Elaborate fountains fed off the Flint River, and new buildings boasted
in their grandeur. This is not the Flint I have made my way through in the past
year and half, or which has changed me. The rain falls on cracked pavements,
and this is the foundation.
A few months after I had established Flint as
my home, I was invited to volunteer for an enrichment center a few miles north
of downtown. We spent the morning in a park next to the center, two friends and
I, picking up trash that had collected over the past year. The trash consisted
of many different items, which mostly fell into two broad categories: alcohol
containers and fast food wrappers. So new to Flint, and not a native, I had
been feeling distinctly like an outsider to the city. What was my role, and how
could I really tangibly contribute? As I walked through the grass, trash bag in
hand, I had the greatest sense of satisfaction. It was a rush. Here was this
park, beautiful, big, full of opportunity. It was so littered, so covered in
the probably years' worth of trash and abandon. All it took was picking up a
vodka bottle here, a McDonald's wrapper there, and within a few hours, in my
eyes at least, it was gorgeous! We spend the afternoon handing out vegetables
that had been donated to the neighborhood around. The experience was a relief:
not because I felt I had made any sort of major difference in anyone's life,
but because I think I made a step forward in understanding Flint. The park was
already there... it just needed some work.
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Many months later I had a slightly different
opportunity to work in the earth of Flint. Friends and I spent a few hours
working to plant a community garden in a lovely old neighborhood with dusty
mansions and run-down houses all around. I love the idea of a garden. It takes
soil that has always been there, enriches it, uses it, and the result is
nourishment for everyone around, what is not to love? Flint is poor, and much
of it abandoned. I have seen scores of roofs with massive gaping holes, from
flames that have licked there way through. There are so many porches, warped
and bent in shapes fit only for a Dr. Seuss book. Liquor stores have supplanted
grocery stores, and brush has defeated lawn. So yes, perhaps I appreciate
gardening more than ever before. I think I am better able to recognize the
value that is growth from a tiny seed, and my responsibility towards helping it
grow. Nothing but weeds will grow if it is not planted; what a shame, if it
doesn't?
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| Fire in Flint |
The tree is silent unless heard
resounding nothing;
moreover am I
if you aren't there for me to smile
In the shimmering puddle, filling up the
image, is everything around me. This city is not Flint without the people here.
They change my reflection as much as the foundation, as much as myself. They
are constantly moving in and out; some spend just a second, others linger in
the background, and each change what I see looking back at me. They are my background.
Bryant Elementary sits now empty and
abandoned, but last year it was the scene of some of my most formative times in
Flint. More Wednesdays than not, I spent the afternoons in classrooms at the
school. My first drive to Bryant, I wound around and through some
neighborhoods, half lost, half curious. Where did I know this landscape from?
Ah, yes. Quito, Ecuador. It was a snapshot of a developing country, somehow
dropped in a "developed" nation. Bars on windows and doors, slathered
paint weathered by decades, dilapidated construction sites interspersed between
stores and churches. So when I stood in front of my first class, and looked at
each of the little faces, it was with the understanding that many of these kids
came from an environment and background very, very different from my own.
With class sizes in the thirties, with
children 6 and 7 years old, and without good resources, it was not easy for the
teachers to teach, and it was certainly a challenge for the novice medical
student. Each child played a role in shaping my experience, whether
particularly challenged and acting out, or bright, eager and curious but
without enough attention. Yes, this nation is one of opportunity. We all have
the opportunity to fight to the top, but some of us have to fight a whole lot
harder than others. These little children, they will have to fight very, very
hard, and from the moment they are born. So I
am surprised when others are
surprised how many of these little ones will turn into adults living in worlds
of crime, homelessness, substance abuse, violence or gangs. Of course! It is
the exceptional child who will begin to fight tooth and nail from such a young
age. In a wealthy suburb non-exceptional means he will live a normal life; in
North Flint, MI this means he will more likely than not end up in jail.
In a primary care office, when we see a child
who we deem not to have the same capacity as her peers to function
intellectually, socially or physically in her surroundings, we call this
"handicapped." I had the wonderful opportunity to volunteer for a
sports physical clinic at the Elmer Knopf Learning Center a while ago, where we
saw 200-300 children so that they could participate in the upcoming Special
Olympics. I loved working with these kids; they were each so unique from the
other, each with their own challenges, each with their own ways of
communication. One child, we'll call her Anne, was especially memorable to me.
She ran over to me when it was her turn, cropped blonde hair bouncing around
her smiling, enthusiastic face. She wore a long, flowered dress, which showed
off her passion for fashion, which she expertly gathered before plopping down
in the chair in front of me. It seemed, during our brief encounter, that she
was as much trying to make me feel comfortable as I was for her. She smiled and
laughed loudly at every joke I made, and the compliments were flowing. Perhaps
she knew what alienation was like, so she tried her absolute best to make sure
no one else would feel that way. It reminded me how intuitive and bright
children can be. This experience solidified my desire to work with children in
the future, and for this I am so grateful.
Children who are handicapped are at such
extreme disadvantage, I am so glad there are resources out there for them, even
if there could always be more. Children from poverty are also at extreme
disadvantage, but I am not sure this is as widely recognized in our country. I
don't know if this is because of our attitude of 'freedom,' which states that
anyone can rise to top, which infers self-blame if you don't. Or perhaps there
is just a lack of understanding: very few people will have the opportunity to
stand in front that classroom like I did. Either way, Flint has given me a
better understanding of what is important in my field. Brim to brim in my
little puddle there are children, and there are many more I cannot see. They
are all looking back at me, as I look at myself, and asking me: what's next?
Sometimes it seems I'm so solid:
bones, muscle, blood, skin;
but I shape like clay,
and the world keeps sculpting away
The puddle shimmers, and at times it is hard
to see my own outline and features, to see myself.
I have changed, certainly, from before Flint, MI, but how? A part of Flint has
always been in me. My great-grandparents moved up from the South to Flint for
jobs, and this was hometown to my grandmother, birthplace to my mother and
three uncles. Hick's Portrait Studio, which I pass all the time on Corunna, was
the origin of both the baby picture and high school graduation photo that I see
when my mother reminisces. So certainly Flint must have already shaped me?
How? This question is as difficult to answer
as truly seeing your own image without judgment. Maybe it is better to gauge
when measured in my desires for the future. What do I want? I want to be
somewhere with a population that is profoundly underserved. I never want to
feel I am blind to the need that is around me. I want to feel I am contributing
in some small way to the greatest needs of our society, because if it is there,
how could I not? I take pleasure in the spirit of a city that is grappling out of
the pit of poverty; it is the strongest spirit I have yet to witness. I want to
surround myself with people who have it, in the hopes I myself can become
stronger. I want to surround myself with people like the nurses and doctors in
Flint hospitals, people like my patients.
The picture in the puddle distorts with every
raindrop, every ripple, and every child's boot that splashes happily through
it; Flint the city, Flint the people, Flint myself. I can't predict what will
happen, just that change most certainly will.
