Sunday School
I wound up arriving late as usual to the 9:am Mass; Fr. Bolle was just finishing up his homily; near as I could tell it had something to do with St. Peter's spreading the Gospel to Gentiles and what a neat thing it was that the teachings of Christ which incorporated a lot of the Jewish religion were no longer restricted to just Jewish people. I was a little groggy and anxious to come up with some semblance of a lesson plan for my Sunday School kids. But, I think that was the essence of what he was saying.
I was half expecting to see Allen, but, he usually goes to the 11:15 Mass. Actually, I was glad for the breathing space; things have moved so quickly in the last 72 hours that I was fully prepared for the inevitable "one step backward" that seems to follow every two steps forward between us. Basically, since Christmas we have admitted that we like each other a lot (neither of us has used the "l" word -- probably for reasons specific to each of us); that we each play an important part in each other's life; and, that there will be times when we are going to be confused about what we want and what we need -- and what the difference is between the two.
So, I was only too glad to think about something else for a while, something like Sunday School. As soon as we were dismissed, but, before the last hymn was begun, I stole out of the sanctuary and practically ran to the kitchen in order to steel myself with a cup of St. Mike's home brew, a mixture so strong that the milk seems to sink to the bottom of your cup and disappear, until maybe after an equal amount of it, the surface of the cup gains the color of liver that has been left on the shelf too long. But, it goes well with brownies.
When I got to the classroom, Hallie #2 (yes, there are two Hallies in the class) was right behind me. She sang out a cheery "Good morning!" Since I was the only adult to show up so far, I was immediately confronted with the task of propping open the door so that we would not be shut in alone together. I am absolutely paranoid of being accused of pedophilia or something worse, in a community where I'm already the resident exotic. And, of course, there's no door stop; and nothing I squeeze in under the door seems to have any traction. So, I excuse myself to Hallie #2 (leaving her in the classroom by herself -- d'uh) while I go looking for a doorstop. Would you believe in the entire church building there wasn't a single doorstop that wasn't already serving an essential purpose? I am resolved to buying one myself.
By the time I get back, the class is already full and I start things off by asking people how their weeks had gone? That always seems to break the ice as they all go to different schools, they seem to delight in comparing notes and engaging in some light one-upmanship (mostly, whining about who has the most work to do.)
But, just as things get warmed up, Sebastian, the other male teacher comes in, and things grind to a halt. He announces that there will be a guest speaker. Well, this is a surprise to me, for even though I was late to church, Sebastian does seem to find the time to forward any number of e-mails concerning things he's downloaded from the Internet most of which seem designed to showcase his erudition and concern for global issues. At no time do I recall anything (reminding me) about a guest speaker coming today.
And it wasn't just any guest speaker. It was a homeless man.
Since September, the four of us (Sebastian and the two other members of our team) had discussed the possibility of Charles coming to the class; it seemed like a good idea at the time. Charles had been the subject of a New York Times article last spring and was also part of a documentary on homelessness shot by a Columbia grad student that may or may not be shown on PBS at some point. The point seemed to be that Charles was articulate and friendly and accessible in ways that most homeless men on the streets of Manhattan were not and that the children could satisfy their curiosity about them through him. And besides, he was a genuine celebrity.
Well, no one could have prepared me for the ensuing 40 minutes. Charles is ushered in by Margie and no sooner had he sat down than the teachers and students of the other Journey to Adulthood class squeeze in to the room to take places on the floor, against the wall, where ever they could find space. The room is tiny to begin with, and was suddenly dense with humanity staring, transfixed by a bundle of sweaters and shirts and overalls, sodden with filth, containing a discounted human with missing teeth and the map of Africa writ all over his deeply lined face.
And yet, when he opened his mouth to speak, it was in complete sentences, in rounded thoughts and phrases that bespoke at least a high school education -- if not more. And in a baritone voice that was at once proud and gentle and in a strange way -- patient. The image flashed in my mind of a beast of burden in a petting zoo.
Charles described at length the hours he spends on the street redeeming soda cans. Sebastian occasionally fed him a question and was very careful never to use the word "homeless". Charles was a "redeemer" (the religious acuity, I'm sure, was not lost on the children), and "a glass and metal waste recycler". But, never homeless.
It was Charles himself who eventually opened the floor up to questions from the kids. At first they were shy; a few were so abashed they seemed to want ot push themselves through the far wall with their backs. One of the older boys (not from my class) had a look of open disdain on his face.
It was the girls who started the ball rolling. One of the older girls wanted to know how many miles a day Charles walked ("15 miles a day"); another wanted to know where he slept. That was the only time Charles showed any sign of caginess or lack of candor; he simply said, that he thought it "best not to go into detail about that."
The question and answer period probably did not last more than 10 minutes. But, to me it felt more like an hour. I was probably the closest person to Charles the entire time (I had moved to a seat next to him in order to make room for the newer arrivals) and I don't know how many others in the room could help but notice it, but, Charles very clearly smelled of feces.
My nostrils felt singed and my eyes were practically watering by the end of the hour. And yet, it was like the 800 pound pink gorilla in the room; no one wanted to be the first person in the room to say that they noticed it, or to ask how this clearly articulate man who could identify by name both the Attorney General and the Governor of the State of New York, could explain in detail pending legislation concerning the recycling of plastic water bottles; but, could not not find a place to change his clothes, groom himself or even wipe himself properly for weeks and more likely, months at a time?
It will fall to me to revisit this scene next week when class returns and I will be teaching it by myself for the first time. :/
I was half expecting to see Allen, but, he usually goes to the 11:15 Mass. Actually, I was glad for the breathing space; things have moved so quickly in the last 72 hours that I was fully prepared for the inevitable "one step backward" that seems to follow every two steps forward between us. Basically, since Christmas we have admitted that we like each other a lot (neither of us has used the "l" word -- probably for reasons specific to each of us); that we each play an important part in each other's life; and, that there will be times when we are going to be confused about what we want and what we need -- and what the difference is between the two.
So, I was only too glad to think about something else for a while, something like Sunday School. As soon as we were dismissed, but, before the last hymn was begun, I stole out of the sanctuary and practically ran to the kitchen in order to steel myself with a cup of St. Mike's home brew, a mixture so strong that the milk seems to sink to the bottom of your cup and disappear, until maybe after an equal amount of it, the surface of the cup gains the color of liver that has been left on the shelf too long. But, it goes well with brownies.
When I got to the classroom, Hallie #2 (yes, there are two Hallies in the class) was right behind me. She sang out a cheery "Good morning!" Since I was the only adult to show up so far, I was immediately confronted with the task of propping open the door so that we would not be shut in alone together. I am absolutely paranoid of being accused of pedophilia or something worse, in a community where I'm already the resident exotic. And, of course, there's no door stop; and nothing I squeeze in under the door seems to have any traction. So, I excuse myself to Hallie #2 (leaving her in the classroom by herself -- d'uh) while I go looking for a doorstop. Would you believe in the entire church building there wasn't a single doorstop that wasn't already serving an essential purpose? I am resolved to buying one myself.
By the time I get back, the class is already full and I start things off by asking people how their weeks had gone? That always seems to break the ice as they all go to different schools, they seem to delight in comparing notes and engaging in some light one-upmanship (mostly, whining about who has the most work to do.)
But, just as things get warmed up, Sebastian, the other male teacher comes in, and things grind to a halt. He announces that there will be a guest speaker. Well, this is a surprise to me, for even though I was late to church, Sebastian does seem to find the time to forward any number of e-mails concerning things he's downloaded from the Internet most of which seem designed to showcase his erudition and concern for global issues. At no time do I recall anything (reminding me) about a guest speaker coming today.
And it wasn't just any guest speaker. It was a homeless man.
Since September, the four of us (Sebastian and the two other members of our team) had discussed the possibility of Charles coming to the class; it seemed like a good idea at the time. Charles had been the subject of a New York Times article last spring and was also part of a documentary on homelessness shot by a Columbia grad student that may or may not be shown on PBS at some point. The point seemed to be that Charles was articulate and friendly and accessible in ways that most homeless men on the streets of Manhattan were not and that the children could satisfy their curiosity about them through him. And besides, he was a genuine celebrity.
Well, no one could have prepared me for the ensuing 40 minutes. Charles is ushered in by Margie and no sooner had he sat down than the teachers and students of the other Journey to Adulthood class squeeze in to the room to take places on the floor, against the wall, where ever they could find space. The room is tiny to begin with, and was suddenly dense with humanity staring, transfixed by a bundle of sweaters and shirts and overalls, sodden with filth, containing a discounted human with missing teeth and the map of Africa writ all over his deeply lined face.
And yet, when he opened his mouth to speak, it was in complete sentences, in rounded thoughts and phrases that bespoke at least a high school education -- if not more. And in a baritone voice that was at once proud and gentle and in a strange way -- patient. The image flashed in my mind of a beast of burden in a petting zoo.
Charles described at length the hours he spends on the street redeeming soda cans. Sebastian occasionally fed him a question and was very careful never to use the word "homeless". Charles was a "redeemer" (the religious acuity, I'm sure, was not lost on the children), and "a glass and metal waste recycler". But, never homeless.
It was Charles himself who eventually opened the floor up to questions from the kids. At first they were shy; a few were so abashed they seemed to want ot push themselves through the far wall with their backs. One of the older boys (not from my class) had a look of open disdain on his face.
It was the girls who started the ball rolling. One of the older girls wanted to know how many miles a day Charles walked ("15 miles a day"); another wanted to know where he slept. That was the only time Charles showed any sign of caginess or lack of candor; he simply said, that he thought it "best not to go into detail about that."
The question and answer period probably did not last more than 10 minutes. But, to me it felt more like an hour. I was probably the closest person to Charles the entire time (I had moved to a seat next to him in order to make room for the newer arrivals) and I don't know how many others in the room could help but notice it, but, Charles very clearly smelled of feces.
My nostrils felt singed and my eyes were practically watering by the end of the hour. And yet, it was like the 800 pound pink gorilla in the room; no one wanted to be the first person in the room to say that they noticed it, or to ask how this clearly articulate man who could identify by name both the Attorney General and the Governor of the State of New York, could explain in detail pending legislation concerning the recycling of plastic water bottles; but, could not not find a place to change his clothes, groom himself or even wipe himself properly for weeks and more likely, months at a time?
It will fall to me to revisit this scene next week when class returns and I will be teaching it by myself for the first time. :/