Footfalls, Brick Falls, Stories Stand

I feel conflicted about the last thing I posted—about how Newark might not stand a chance. I wrote it rather freely, so I guess I meant what I said. But looking back at it, I am kind of ashamed of some aspects of my unchecked opinions.

I had just taken an Imodium tablet before writing—my second one of the day—and was about to board a plane for a 5 hour flight. Needless to say, but said anyway: I was a bit temperamental when I took to the keyboard. The soured outlook on urban living must have just been a civilian casualty of the intestinal war going down in my gut.

The interesting thing about having no readers of my blog is that I do not get any feedback. I also can't figure out how to set up a comments section on the blog. If anyone knows, please leave a comment below on how to do this.

All this means I provide my own feedback, and I am usually very kind about it. And no, It is not at all uncommon that I go back and reread things I have written. Doing so usually makes me feel better about myself as a person. It’s not something I am proud to admit, but I really do this. I reread posts, and marvel at my innovative syntax and intoxicating wit and hope my shameful vainglory might numb some of my glaring insecurities. People often told me I have a way with words, and I guess I have come to believe it.

On second pass of this last post, however, I was left feeling like the kid who walks into class with toilet paper stuck on the bottom of his shoe. What a terrible feeling. Everyone else was laughing to themselves because they knew I was full of crap, but I had somehow convinced myself I wasn’t, until I looked down and saw the white reminder dragging behind me, dirty from the lonely walk through the unkempt hallways. Gosh, that was a pitiful analogy.

When writing on Newark, it looks like I oversimplified very complex dynamics, misrepresented very strong peoples, and just spewed out a fair amount of garbage for the sake of coloring one or two decent insights. The one thought I was actually proud of producing was that we should be grateful for all the conflict in our segregated cities. I still think this is true. I think the anger is healthy and a necessary step on the road to reconciliation. Everything else is kind of suspect.

In a feeble attempt of reparation, I feel called to share a brief reflection my housemate Julie and I wrote. Really I owe an apology to Newark, but I'm not in a position to write one. Because like I said, I know very little about the place. So what follows is a reflection on our time in Baltimore.

I write about things I noticed on my walk to work, and she writes about things she came to understand while running with Back on My Feet. Essentially, it is our effort at redeeming a neighborhood misunderstood. It is about the hope we found there—on its streets, with our neighbors, and in knowing that as long as there are people—people willing to enter each other’s stories—every city stands a chance.

Footfalls, Brick Falls, Stories Stand

Plastic bags dance frivolously in the wind— polyethylene angels sent by the spirit of Lord Baltimore for my sensory stimulation and subsequent dopamine-founded pleasure. I wonder what silent, city ballad they move to the pulse of today. I wonder if they feel the beat of the stereo system that negotiates the congestion of Fulton Street, with fervor and a serpentine certainty. I wonder if they are affected by that beat in the same way I am. Their chaotic choreography clashes with the timely vibrations of the concrete—in a manner void of any poetic intent— indicating they are rather unencumbered by the forces of the surround.

Twenty runners, arms circled around each other, stand huddled and oblivious to the swirling bags and the whipping wind. Beneath the spandex-polyester blend and sweat-wicking layers are twenty stories- twenty tales of forks in the road, misguided steps, joyful triumphs, and loving companionship. Arms wrap around shoulders as their stories collide and intertwine, inviting conversation amid the shared miles. Footfalls dispel preconceived assumptions as a harmonious cadence proves community lives beyond work meetings, college graduations, and house parties. Miles do not discriminate based on employment status, and running shoes do not care if the feet inhabiting them own a house or not. Those layers mask life journeys, begging each of us to remove the mask and discover the truth beneath.

As the circle tightens against the chill, arms, hearts, and stories hold each other close. The differences are forgotten in an embrace that celebrates our sameness- all runners, all people.

Emerging from Mount St. and following our path to the hospital, we are compelled to believe differently. The cracks in the pavement, the abandoned row homes, they try to tell us we come from somewhere else. But between the cracks you find growth—resilient organisms that reach towards the light—and if you sift through the rubble and the ash you will find stories. And though the brick that these stories once lived in continues to crumble, the stories rebuild in the stories of our neighbors—in their daily “good mornings,” in their smiles of understanding, in the tension in the leash of their dog.

Sometimes what you see doesn't wholly capture the truth. And sometimes what you see tells a lie. And sometimes I think about the grace of the plastic bags, and wish we could all be more like them: their movements radical and decided, but inseparable from the movement of the city's unstoppable feet.

#baltimore