Kids Don't Know Shit

I didn’t see this as much growing up, grandparents caring for children out in public, but it was something I became accustomed to while living in Asia. It is something I see in my neighborhood in the 9^th ward of New Orleans. It is something I was forced to think about just today, beyond the doors of Wal-Mart on Tchoupitoulas, where a boy of three gestured proudly at a crouching woman who gently refused the boy’s offer of Hot Cheetos. The woman kept his attention though, as if this were her part in the family business, as if her responsibility was to entertain the child while one of her relatives painted his mother’s toenails. It looked as if this had happened naturally.

               It is this human interaction that will never be stamped out by any corporation. There we were, beneath the fluorescent lights and cheap-cheap-cheap prices, around the corner from an indoor McDonald’s, amidst throngs of cart pushers and bargain seekers, and inside this nail salon a connection was happening.

               I wrote a story once that involved a main character who got a job in a Wal-Mart (You can read it here). He was happy. He was free. It was not about making or not making money. He was a greeter, much like the woman who led me down the aisles today while I pushed my cart with one hand and drank coffee with the other. We said hello to those we passed. She was pretty sure the mason jars was past the toothpaste and towels. She was pretty sure her tomatoes wasn’t gonna make it. But she shared stories of her abundance: vines weighed down by cantaloupe and cucumbers. When she spoke of her troubles with those pesky tomato bugs, I said, “Me too.” The truth is that I have many tomatoes growing. I have found their success is based on the soil they grow in and that packing more organic matter—grass and leaves and coffee grounds and newspaper—only aids in their reach for the sky. I did not feel it my place to give this lady advice as she delivered me to the same jars that once filled my grandmother’s basement. She said maybe she’d get some. Maybe she’d make some pickles.

               I had others who had asked for advice. Miss Pat stayed by Claiborne and Mazant. She found me at CRISP Farms one afternoon and asked if I could take a look at her tomatoes. She walked her bike as I walked beside her, and then I saw CJ pass on his dirt bike—broken seat, no brakes, bent handlebars—it was one of those bikes you see everywhere in the hood, one that makes the rider more athletic—and he turned it over to me.

               Miss Pat was growing in the shadows between two houses even though she had a yard and fence and a nice big square of lawn that got full sun.

               I gave her what advice I could and promised to come back again. On my way back home, Dejuan yelled out, as I rode past with my knees pumping higher than the handlebars, “Mr. Zach, you stoleded CJ’s bike?!? “It’s errybody’s bike,” I said, and that was closer to the truth.

               Days later Miss Pat brought a lemon cake by my house to share with everyone at the festival. CJ still borrowed my bike pump every morning. Kids still ran the streets and got more athletic on their bicycles. Shakiyah still asked for carrots. Jay Daniel still said he wanted to plant some seeds cause he like to watch the seeds become something [before he lets the plant die].

               And still….Miss Nancy sits on her porch and smokes cigarettes all day long, and I imagine that she has to lifts her legs with her hands to get up from her chair. The kids chase each other up and down the street as she perches like a mother hen. These kids need her screams. Miss Nancy needs their energy. It is the kids who give the rest of us another sublet on life.

               Maybe they have more to teach us than we have to teach them. Maybe we just need to pay attention. When my niece was two I took her on a walk through my parent’s neighborhood and let her lead the way. She picked up sticks and brushed her hands over grass and chased cats and kicked a basketball. She kept looking back to make sure I was watching. For the most part she was in the moment. I felt like the BF Skinner of my generation, like a Rousseau who had done a better job with Emile. As I basked in my glory and followed Bella’s lead, I turned to see her rolling something between her hands. It was yet another opportunity for me to be in her moment, and, in turn, to be in mine. It was the simple joy of seeing everything. It was the sense of touch.

               It was a dog turd.