Cynthia II

It's 7:30 in the morning. I'm at a Subway across from the courthouse on Indiana Ave and I'm watching hoards of blue collar and white collar workers join the rat race and get to work on time.

I am one of them now.

It's so strange to think about it but when I actually concentrate on the fact that I'm employed, paying taxes, and "doing my part," I can't help but chuckle to myself. How quickly I went from a child to an adult. What a twisted road I took; this year of working at Community Connections will be one where I look back and wonder how I made it. There will be times when it dragged on for eternity, and there will be times when I blinked and it was over. I can't believe it's already July. Does the rest of life go so quickly?

I'm snapped back to reality when someone tries to come into the Subway from a locked door. "Not open, come in main ah-trence!" Another African, employed and working in America. The begger is pissed but keeps walking. I hate this place this morning, and decide to kill time by writing my parents a letter from the pen and paper the Congressman's office gave me as a "thank you" for being such a great intern. So great, in fact, they didn't hire me when a job opened. I'm trying so hard to not be bitter, but it's difficult when they went with someone with more hill experience over someone who knew the job, and spent so much time and effort with the offices in Yorktown. Now I'm stuck in this job I hate it because I can't do any better for myself. I'm drowning in this pity party. Letter.

"Dear Mom and Dad,
I'm here at a Subway restaurant, waiting to see if one of my clients will show around 9. It's about 7:30-- I had to drive Kiara to Chinatown today to catch a bus to NYC, where she has a job interview.
I feel very stuck right now. There are no jobs out there for which I can easily apply, and without a Masters' degree, I'm not very marketable. Lately I've been having trouble thinking to the futre; been stuck in the moment. I might be writing you all a lot of letters over the next year; it helps. I'm starting to resent the city. I'm trying very hard to remember memories here with family, but there are so many moments now that override the old ones. I'm trying to focus on the year; this is only temporary. this is only a year, but it seems like an eternity. All I really want to do is get this over with and get out; I don't even know if I want to stay in Arlington. I want to be somewhere away from the city and the busy style of things.
I got really angry at God yesterday. I want to know why God allows some people to be born into failure; drug addicted homes, predisposed to these dangerous lifestyles. I realized yesterday that I'm looking evil blatantly in the eye everyday and it's exhausting. I feel so frail today, like I'm powerless, helpless, and doing absolutely nothing important. I feel like I'm not good enough to work anywhere else, like I have no other choices right now. And I know this is my problem, where I'm here stuck in the moment. I can't seem to get out of it. I'm sick of crying; I'm never hungry and I've lost some weight; I don't have any interests today other than sleep. A year; I have to just get through this for a year.
Do you think I'm weak? Do you think I'm a coward? I know I need to just grow up; Maybe I was too eager to grow up. I don't really remember why I was in such a hurry. I don't remember who was so important that I had to impress them. Have you ever felt this way? Will it go away, or will I always feel so overwhelmed? The funny thing is, I'm not scared of losing my job. I'm not worried I'll fail on paper. I'm not even scared of my clients; I walked around bad Anacostia neighborhood yesterday to clear my head. I still can't even pinpoint the breakdowns, except I feel I got what I deserved. I'm working at a job I settled for because I was so scared of being looked down on as a college-graduate-nobody. I'm my own worst enemy I guess. But all I'm wondering now is what I was trying to hard to prove in the first place.
I've considered failing on purpose at this job and not making productivity; that would give me 2 months to clear out; one on probabtion and the other final month to leave. But that would be a black eye on my resume and I'd be stuck with rent and no way to pay. This isn't the worst; I know that I am very blessed and I'm thankful for God's provision and my relationship with Him.
This is not a good letter; I know. I'm sorry you guys have to read about my gray while still dealing with Nana. I'll be better, I think. I'll write more. It helps. I love you both so much, and miss you.
Love,
Ellen"

Mr. Moten's supposed to be here soon; I should probably walk over to the Judicairy Metro stop. I keep an eye out for Mr. Bogash; he wants to meet up later and discuss why I got into "do-gooder" work, as he calls it. If only he knew I feel like I'm trapped, in every possible way.

Mr. Moten is already at the Metro. He's easy to recognize. He's a very handsome black man who would probably go very far in life if drugs and schizophrenia hadn't taken hold of him in his 20s. He's a father of 3 and is here to inquire about how much money is taken out of his SSI check for child support. His youngest is 18 and he seems to think the cut off age is 18, though I have a sinking feeling it's 21. He's angry that his son's mother is likely pocketing the money and as I sit down next to him in the heat, he sounds so helpless.

"I can't figure this out," he says. "I'm paying for him and they takin' this money out and I don't even know if he's gettin' it. I can't get a break man, can't get a break."

Mr. Moten is especially heart-breaking. He takes great pride in his appearance. Today he's wearing a baby-blue shirt and nice slacks. He loves to read and carries his lawnchair with him everywhere. I've often seen him in the Mall lounging in front of monuments with books from the library. He's a kind soul, so quick to smile and so observant. I have a picture of my parents on my desk, and the first thing he ever said to me was "you are the spittin' image of your mother." He's always talking about starting an enterprise, a "philanthropy like Bono or Bill Clinton" and he's always looking for investors. He found one the other day apparently, but it was an annonymous donor.

"Look at everyone. Walking around like everything is just peaches an' cream. Don't nobody know what a hard break is. They all got money, they have no idea. Ellen, I got a book on making money. All about capitalism."

"Oh, I studied some of that theory in school. Want me to explain it to you?"

He looks suddenly amused. I walked into a hole with this one. "Go ahead."

"Umm, ok. So capitalism is where the market is free from most government regulations and buyers and sellers determine the prices of goods. There is competition and people can get rich or poor depending on how competitive they make themselves. Everyone has an equal opportunity to succeed or fail." I cringe as I say this, because I know it isn't true.

"I know I know what it is. The rich get richer and the poor get poorer. I know, I'm one of the poorer ones, fall on hard times. You ever had a hard time, Ellen?"

I hesitate, because there was a time in my life I couldn't physically move by myself. Mr. Moten has never experienced this; he's in perfect shape, just incredibly poor. "Yes, but it's different from what you're going through, Mr. Moten. Everyone has different problems. Just because you're rich doesn't mean life is good; someone who looks like everything is just 'peaches and cream' may have a whole 'nother set of issues that you will never have to experience."

"Hmm. Maybe, I guess you're right. Let's go in now."

We're both drenched because it's around 100 degrees outside. Mr. Moten discovers that he has to keep paying child support until his son is 21. He laughs, but there's a certain defeat to it. I'm sorry Mr. Moten, I want to say. I'm sorry that you're stuck and you can't start trying to build your business until after you can save some more money. I'm sorry you're sweet, caring nature will never really be seen by the world because society is so quick to label you a nobody, an undesirable. I'm sorry the world won't get the chance to see what your potential could've been. I wish I could do more to help you, Mr. Moten; it hurts to think of all you've been robbed of.

"Please have a safe weekend, Mr. Moten. Stay inside in the air conditiong, ok? Drink a lot of water. Be safe, take care of yourself Mr. Moten."

"Alright. I'll see you on Tuesday, Ellen."
-----------------------------------------
I pick up Cynthia later that morning. She's wearing clothes today and her face looks surprisingly younger; she's washed and her eyes look clear, like she's as mentally cognizant as she can be. What a strange difference from yesterday; she's so calm. Like a different spirit exists inside her today; her mom's the one in the towel this morning and I silently pray that it stays on this time.

"I'm ready when you are." Cynthia's smoking a cigarette and eying me quietly, like she's still deciding whether or not she can trust me. I'm so ready to go. "Alright, come on then."

We go outside her building, and one of her neighbors is smoking pot on the stairs. He looks at me suspiciously. "Nah, this my case manager, you good," Cynthia says, quickly easing his suspicions that I'm with the police in any way. There's a flyer on my windshield when I go outside, but Cynthia's gotten to my car first to pull it and look at it. Her face somehow remains expressionless as she reads that her neighbor was killed on the 4th of July.

His name is John Pernell, and he was in his 60s. Someone was trying to rob him while he was setting up a cookout in his yard, and when he refused to give up money, he was shot multiple times and pronounced dead by the time the police took him to the hospital.

"Did you know him?" Cynthia nods silently. "Are you ok, Ms. Hayes?"

"I'm fine. Everyone know Mr. Pernell though, he been 'round here over 20 years. He such a nice man, he always telling me 'put on more clothes 'lil girl!' Ha, I just go over watch tv at his 'partment. Nice man."

There's little remorse in her voice. She's not weeping, and I notice that the look on her face still hasn't changed. She's numb except for the random memories and she cracks a smile every now and then. I see tragedy and she sees another day in the neighborhood.

We're stuck in traffic on 295, and I let my mind drift. Even Cynthia had people she knew that would come out of the woodworks and be her friend, so easily. I pictured Mr. Pernell, an older man who had lived a hard life but finally got his own piece of heaven to own in Anacostia, where he'd worked hard his whole life. It must've hurt his heart to see women like Cynthia sell themselves short and succumb to the pressures of street life. He must've told her to put on more clothes with a smile on his face, but secretly wished to protect her as a father looks after a daughter who doesn't know better. He was the man who waved at you from his porch as he sat in the sun all day. He knew your first name. He was kind and helpful, and thought he'd get to see his grandchildren later that day. An innocent bystander and now he's dead. He's dead and Cynthia's numb. Cynthia's numb and I'm driving in this heat, pondering a pointless death, filled with dissatisfaction for the way things turn out, wishing the sun would burn me down into the sidewalk or the rain would dissolve me; melt me down into nothing so I could claim ignorance in the midst of all this hopelessness. 'There was another shooting? Someone else is dead and no one really cares? I don't know anything about it, I can't be trusted to do anything; I'm merely burnt ash and evaporated water. I'm not here, and if I appear to be a living, breathing, cognizant human being, it's all a mistake. I'm really quite helpless.'

Cynthia, I can tell, is used to being told "no." She begs for money from anyone shamelessly, including me. She gets her bus pass for free because she whines over and over that she has no money for a replacement ID. "No" is just a way of life and it's broken her down so much. She has moments throughout the day when I say something that makes her laugh, though I never really mean to. She tells me she likes my shoes and asks about the blisters on my feet. She smiles randomly. She's so quiet, yet in a tender, child-like way. She litters once, and I ask her to pick it up and please find a trashcan; she does and apologizes. I wonder what broke her down, or what she was like before... life happened. Mr. Pernell is not the first person she knew to die; how did she react at the very first death of a friend? Did she scream and cry? Was she angry? How do you start becoming so calloused to death; what does that process even look like?

I take her home and she's still quiet, happy about the bus pass and regretful that she won't make her NA meeting for the sake of Mr. Pernell's funeral. I understand. She makes random comments about traffic, and finally, I can't take it anymore.

"How can you be so calm about Mr. Pernell? How are you ok?!" I realize I shouldn't be asking someone with schizoaffective disorder these questions, but it's eating me.

She stares straight ahead and answers quietly, never blinking. "I know a lot of people to die. My friend got killed right in front of me in 2000, and I got shot in the leg. I don't know." And she doesn't know; she's telling me. Not asking for an explanation, but simply telling me, like she'd tell me the weather.

"Aren't you scared?" Wrong question.

"Nah, I ain't scared. You scared, ain't you?"

Yes, Cynthia. I'm scared that the world's so incredibly fucked up that we can't begin to see where good ends and evil begins.

"No, I'm not. I was just wondering about your past trauma history, and how that must still be hard on you."

She's smiling to herself again. "I'm not scared." And maybe she genuinely believes that.

We get home and she turns to me. "Thank you, Ms. Ellen. I'll see you later, then." I'm suddenly overwhelmed that she thanked me; this woman who has, deep down, a sweet, quiet spirit yet has such a rough exterior in order to cope with her surroundings; this woman took the wall down to thank me today. What a huge, incredibly powerful thing genuine gratitude is.

"You're so welcome, Ms. Hayes. I'll see you next week." There are more John Pernell flyers on other cars. My eyes are blurring with tears as I make a u-turn to go back to the office. As I pass her house, she's still on the porch, waiting for me to drive by. She waves briefly, then turns to go.

Cynthia, I could've so easily been you. You could've so easily been me. How unfair it all is, and yet you found it necessary to thank me? I've done nothing worthy of your thanks, sweet lady. I'm just another sparrow, and we're all trying to find our way back to the nest.