The Elves in the Hood

I really should be cleaning or here's a novel thought...sleeping. It is afterall the wee hours. But, these little gear-turning elves in my brain will not quit working. Guess we know they're not with the Union.

Many of you (like I'm talking to a crowd here) know that I teach a teen girl's Bible study in one of the local projects here in Huntsville. It's been about six years now and I finally feel as though I've won the trust of most of my students, which trust me, is no small accomplishment. One even calls me her godmamma. They are the reason I can't shake the elves tonight.

They live hard lives in broken-down homes, daughters of disfunction. Most of the fathers are gone. They want to do what is right, but they have so few examples to live by. Sometimes I feel like they are broken cisterns and every week I come with Living Water. I pour the water into the cisterns, but because of the cracks and fisures the precious water leaks out and, by the next Sunday, they are completely dry again as though water had never passed through them. It is frustrating to the point of clothes rending or hair uprooting. But, I love them as Jesus loved the woman at the well.

Right now, two of my girls are pregnant. Both due in February. One is 17. The other is 12. No that was not a typo. She is actually the second 12-year-old students I have had who has found herself pregnant. I can understand the 17-year-old, at least a little bit. So far, her boyfriend has stuck by her. She is a realist. She knows babies are hard, wake-you-up in the middle of the night, keep-you-from-having-fun work. I wouldn't say she's ready. What first mom is? But, she's got a good head on her shoulders and she'll do all right. The 12-year-old. Well, she's 12. And that, in the strange economy of the inner city, makes all the difference. Her mother plans to raise the child as though it were her own, while pretending that the baby is her daughter's sister. It's certainly not the best scenario. I would prefer that she place the child for adoption. But, it's not about what I prefer.

This all brings me back to the elves and the endless acrobatics my mind does to try to get to the bottom of it all. Why do the father's leave, act like they were a million miles a way when the deed was done? Why do the women allow themselves to be treated in such a base, inhumane manner? Why is poverty acceptable? Why do they pass around their babies like they're blue jeans? Why isn't education the great bridge out of poverty like it was for me?

I'm no anthropolgist (though I wish I was), but I've been conducting my own little anthroplogical study these last few years, filing away little bits of information here and there hoping for a break through. I've read that some theorize that the prevelance of male infedility in some black communities can be traced back to the days of slavery, when a married slave could be sold to a plantation 100 miles away from his family. He might never see his wife again, and so would be left with no choice but to be unfaithful to the first and take on another. Well, that may be so. But let's be honest. That happened 150 plus years ago. And unless you believe in some sort of Clan of the Cave Bear race memory garbage, it's just not okay to right off the generation-destroying behavior of a large segment of society because of the mindless mistakes of men who have been dead for five generations. Others would say that the tendency to sample several women at once goes back much further to their ancestors' African, tribal days when poligamy was a symbol of status and prestige. And again, I say, rubbish. Do descendents of slave owners seek to preserve the tradition of soul-owning today? Do the great-grandchildren of the Nazis have a right to unfurl the Swastika and shreak, "White Pwer!" How about the many tribes of Papau New Guinea who were totally into canibalism? Would you excuse them for trying to barbecue your mother because it's a tradition they've known for generations?

No! You'd say cut the evil thread. Be gone with it. Bury it in the deepest pit in the deepest cave in the deepest ocean. Look to the Truth that fills the pages of the Bible and start your new life there. Do not use what some mindless master did to your great-great-great grandaddy ruin you and those around you. Do not use culture, or tribal traditions that fly in the face of God's commands as a crutch. I cannot tell you what a difference it would make if just five men in the community where I work would bend their proud knees before our merciful God. Their example would shine like the chrome on the tripped-out, lime-green 1976 Chevy Impala I saw crusing through the neighborhood the other night. Lives would be forever transformed. Souls saved. Girls valued. Cisterns mended. Elves silenced. Oh..that it would be so. Father hear my prayer.

Turning into Grandma

I figured if I waited long enough to post, the fall background on my blog would once again be in season. And so it is, almost fall...and I haven't posted since, ugh...March? What is wrong with me? Oh, I know. For the last five months or so I've been totally void of inspiration and since I'm really weird about my writing, I just didn't want to post a useless, "this is what's going on in Sarah's mundanley busy life." But, the guilt is crushing. I just hear the word "blog" and a choir of accusing voices assemble in my head, crying out in one shrill voice, "why haven't you blogge d lately? What's the matter with you? Don't you have anything to say to the world?

Well, yes. I have lots to say and that's the lion share of the problem. So much to say, so little time to make sure what I say is actually backed up by facts and is semi-coherent.

But the voices must be silenced so I can go to bed. And if I have to write out my schedule for tomorrow, by golly that's what's going to end up in the blogosphere.

Maybe a little update on my life wouldn't be so awful? Everyday, I feel as though I becoming more and more like my Grandmother. All-in-all that's a good thing. My Grandma Virginia was my favorite person in the whole world while I was growing up. She wasn't like today's Grandma's with their trendy haircuts and boot cut jeans. No, my Grandma was of the blue-haired breed. She didn't really have blue hair, but she did have it set every week at the local beauty shop and never washed it on her own. At night, she protected her unchanging, perfectly rounded curls with a silky-pinky cap she called a Babushka. Like her hair, the cap never changed. That was probably why I loved her so much. She was imovable, predictable--the exact opposite of life with my mom. But, that's another story. Let's stick with grandmothers. Polyester was miracle material according to my grandmother, an expert washer-woman who favored anything you could spray down with Stain Guard. Virtually indestructable and completely unbreathable, designed in the zootiest patterns imaginable, my grandmother's entire wardrobe contained a hefty dose of the stuff. And I promise you that the same pair of pants she wore to my Baptism, she was still wearing the year I graduated from high school. Unchanging, I tell you. And we loved her for it.

Grandma was also really frugal. I say frugal and not cheap because she was generous with her church and family, which tells me that she wasn't at all cheap, she just knew the value of a dollar. Something that I'm sure was forged in her as a young girl growing up in the Great Depression and a quality completely missing in today's generation. She could find 101 uses for a used cottage cheese containter and heaven forbid you ever throw out a pair of snagged panty hose in her presence. You might as well be throwing away a rosary! She was also a voracious coupon clipper. And heaven help the clerk who argued with Grandma over an expiration date or product description. They might as well get out the white flag, because she wasn't backing down. Which, finally brings me back to this feeling that I am turning into my Grandmother. No, I haven't quit washing my hair or started dumpster diving for used panty hose, but I have been clipping coupons. I know, my "dork factor" just increaded a thousand percent. But, it's actually theraputic. Just knowing that I'm doing something tangible to help save our family money makes me feel a little more like that impossibly perfect chick in the Proverbs. Afterall, I have no idea how to make coverings for my family and I wouldn't know the first place to look for wool and flax.