A Moment That Redefines a Relationship
By Karen Sanborn
This is a letter to the boys of 13th Avenue South:
You may not remember me, but I remember you, and well. We met on your street, outside your house, about a month ago. I offered my hand and all three of you shook it. My friends and I asked you about the neighborhood because for six weeks, we would be weaving through your streets and mining for your stories. We saw things. Lots of people rent, we said. Kids play ball in the street. Sure, you said.
But you knew there was more to the story. You wanted your yard to be grassy, not the patchwork of dirt that it was. You pointed to the "Deaf Child" sign and said there wasn't really one in the neighborhood; someone posted it to guilt drivers into slowing down. You warned us not to go to Harbordale because we might get killed. You said these things at dusk on the first day we met.
I remember you, JJ, skinny JJ with the dreds and the knee-length jean shorts. And I remember you, young black man with the new gold-plated tooth. It was just cool, you said. What was your name? I wonder now if you remember me as White Girl Reporter, the one who came to you twice but never again.
Here is the letter that replaces visit number three. It's just a piece of paper, one you could fold into an airplane or crumple up and use for hoops. But you should read it.
Here's why.
You'll learn why I am terrified of you. You'll understand how much power you have. And, by the end, you'll realize why instead of my face, you see typeface. We won't have a chance to reconcile. I'm leaving town and your street is not on my visiting list.
You should know it didn't have to be this way.
The first visit was all about meeting on common ground. Sure, we were in your territory. But kids everywhere want a decent place to play, you know. And the street I live on, that's Pleasant Street, is known for its speed demons. Our enemies were the same that first day.
But when Keri, the photographer, and I stepped to the edge of your yard on our second visit, the common ground was off limits. No one shook hands. Suddenly, the divide was glaring. We were two, you were eight. We are white, you are black. We are young women, you are even younger men. We wanted information, and you had none you wanted to give. Suddenly I was on foreign ground listening to a language I didn't understand. My stomach was sinking. So was my confidence. You, who had just been our neighborhood guides, were now the gatekeepers.
Some of you huddled in the dusty yard, some of you jabbed at one another in the street as cars thumped by. You did not want your picture taken, JJ. You yelled "No!" again and again. Keri took your advice and walked away, but I didn't. I was clinging to slivers of courage, hoping to learn the name of your dentist, Gold Tooth. If I hadn't been so nervous, I would have asked you if the girls liked it. That's what I saw in you: a story. Everybody has one. But you didn't get around to telling it. That second day, you wouldn't even meet me halfway. In the eyes.
Isn't it my job to be comfortable with everyone? My job is to adapt, to be a chameleon and learn what I can. It's to peek into people's lives and earn trust. So with you guys, all I really wanted was to hang out, learn your handshake and feel a part of this strange place. And I was there in the yard, but to you, I didn't exist. Not until one of you swaggered over to give me a once over.
There was something behind this up and down look, don't you think? Was it to feel me out, see if I could play along in this odd little game? Or was the look my initiation, a sort of ritual to welcome me into the yard? Either way, I didn't know the code. Maybe it's not that complicated. Maybe I should have gone with my gut. It said I shouldn't be there.
Instead, I went with duty, with my job as a reporter. I didn't know why I gave him a once over in return. I don't even remember what I really saw, except I thought I glimpsed a bulge below the waist. It was a nanosecond. I looked away. But you saw it, Gold Tooth. You were the first to accuse.
"Why are you looking at his crotch?" you shot, calling the attention of the others. "He just had surgery," you shouted. I was stung. Thrown into playing defense. It looked as if his shorts were stuffed with plastic bags. I didn't know whether this was some nasty sexual thing or if it was your idea of a joke.
"I wasn't looking," I muttered.
All at once I was on a turntable, dizzied at the faces circling me. My heart beat at alternating paces: fast for fear, slow for betrayal. I shouldn't have felt scared because we had met before, and I shouldn't felt betrayed because I hadn't done anything wrong.
What started as a glance snowballed into a group assault. Suddenly, you were asking the questions—personal, painful questions. You asked, how did I want it? Hard? Wet? Rough? All three? Would I bend over for it?
These were your questions. These were the words you pelted at me.
I'm asking why you did this. Did you think I was a threat to your neighborhood? Was I like the media you complained about, the ones who only come around to ask about your arrest? Did you think I was a racist?
No. I'm none of these things. I am a reporter. I did ask you to share something with me. But I asked for stories about your lives. About your lawn and your teeth. I didn't ask for harassment. I didn't ask to be scared.
It's possible you were just as scared as I was. Maybe your reaction was a joke I didn't understand. It could have been to hide your embarrassment. Or maybe you were taping off your territory, a place where I don't belong.
But really, I don't know why you did what you did. I don't know who you are. And even though I told you I'm a reporter, you don't know who I am either. I think neither of us knew what the other wanted. We didn't know how to talk through that gap. We couldn't bridge a fault line that got wider with every second.
Know that these awful moments with you bruised my whole relationship with your neighborhood. After our second encounter, I didn't want to walk up and down the streets for the next six weeks. I didn't even want to get out of my car. Any odd look shot in my direction sent shivers.
But you should also know I didn't give up. I didn't stop being a journalist. I spent a lot of time your neighborhood. I got out of my car and I talked to people who sat on their stoops. People who, like you, didn't want to meet me in the eyes at first. I didn't even give up on young black men.
I won't be coming back to your neighborhood, but I am coming back to you. I want you to remember the last question I asked. "Do you treat all women this way?"
"Just reporters," you said.
I don't believe that. I think I saw the real boys of 13th Avenue South on the first day. I guess I was there to take something, but I've been thinking for six weeks about what you took from me. I think you should know it didn't have to be this way.
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