Bronx River Education

George is Dead. Long Live George.

June 15, 2008

Just a few days ago, as I walked my son to school along 156^th street, we came upon one of those make-shift shrines that are so common in our neighborhood. I would have just past by with a glance except that I realized that at that very moment, we were lacking George’s “Good Morning!” I bent over next to the young man that was kneeling there and read the first line of a note written in a strong hand: “Our good friend George,” it read. “George is dead?” I asked, already knowing the answer. “Yeah. They found him yesterday morning. George was nice to everyone.” I stood up and staggered the rest of the way to my son’s school, trying my damnedest not to cry, though I made my sadness very clear to my son. George is dead.

The word community is bandied about for many different conditions, but community is that place where you are known to others, and others known to you. Often, especially in urban areas, community is hard to define, and even harder to come by. Though I may try to present myself, or fool myself into believing otherwise, being a part of a community is something that I have really searched for, even in the days when I strove to be an outsider. I needed to have a community to be outside of.

When I was accepted by the NYC Teaching Fellows, I knew that I would have little say in where I would teach. That was not such a concern for me, but where to live was a concern. I ascribe to one of Paolo Freire’s philosophies of teaching, of living, in fact, that states that in order to teach a people, in order to make a change for the better in a community, then one must be a part of that community. When I knew where in the Bronx I would be teaching, my wife and I found an apartment within a fifteen minute walking distance from my school. This fulfilled my Freirian belief, but also made commuting a non-factor and made good use of the structure of a city; Things are close together to improve access. Cars and commuting kill communities.

On my first walk to school on a hot July morning some six years ago, I met two people: A young girl sitting on the steps of a building who asked me the time (now a teen who walks her younger siblings to school) and a man on a the corner of 156^th and Union with a cup of coffee in his hand who responded to my cordial, “Good morning,” with and energetic, “Good Moornin!”

The man’s age was hard to figure out. He was a Black man beyond forty but less than sixty. Several years later when I heard him say, “ Buenos dias, hijita!” to my wife, and I knew that he was from a Latin American country. I figured out that he was Garifuna after hearing him speak to others a few times, though I cannot say from what country. He was there every day, looking slightly disheveled, as though he had spent much of the previous night in that spot. Much of the year he would wear a black or Navy, down coat, and, to my eye, had the look of someone who was homeless. I have no proof of this latter description, though he was on that street corner, in front of the bodega, every morning on our way to school and every afternoon or evening on our way home for six years.

For a couple of years, George was just the man who said hello. Then, one afternoon as we were walking home, we heard somebody shout from inside the bodega, “Hey, George, you want a cup of coffee?” Nancy, Damian and I looked at each other in wonder: His name is George. We toyed with the idea of saying, “Good morning, George,” but it didn’t seem respectful to use somebody’s name when they don’t know yours. One of these days, though, we thought, we’ll stop and introduce ourselves. At least the knowledge of his name gave us a way to refer to him when he was not in view. For six years all told, we walked past him and shared salutations. For the past nine months, our daughter has been a part of this tradition as well, receiving an even more affectionate “Good morning!” (“Buenos Dias,” a mi esposa) which punctuated our walks to Bethania’s big brother’s school.

As white guy in a mostly Latino and Black neighborhood, I stick out. My choice of dress, often including a tie, sets me apart even more and to the visitors or more recent arrivals, it is sometimes assumed that I am either a cop or a missionary. The suspicious glances that I would receive on that one corner would quickly fade away as soon as George marked me as a known entity by stopping whatever he was doing to share a hello. On one of those mornings, I realized that I was not such an anonymous passerby to George. “¿Lo conoces?” asked a young man standing near the bodega door, believing me out of hearing range. “Claro,” replied George as though it were a ridiculous question, “Es un maestro. Por aqui pasa siempre.” I was a part of a community.

As a teacher in the NYC public schools, I considered the community an integral part of the education of my students. There is a great need to get students to look at their community as a resource and a positive place. While it is not impossible to know a neighborhood in which you do not reside, only spending time working inside of one building in that neighborhood cannot offer a clear perspective into the surrounding world. This is exacerbated when the people that have no contact with the neighborhood are the administrators. “No, you cannot have afterschool classes that go out into the neighborhood because it is too dangerous.” Or, my favorite response when I noted to an assistant principal that a particular troublesome student had become my neighbor: “Move out. Why would you want to do that to your family?” Yet the neighborhood is somehow acceptable for the student body. I found it difficult even for myself to be as much a part of the community as would like with all of the demands of teaching and the restraints put in place by administrations; school, city, state and federal. That desire to be a part of the community was one of the various reasons that I chose to accept the position with the Bronx River Alliance. I would be a part of a community and could focus more of my energies on helping teachers to know at least a little more the communities around their schools.

On Saturday, June 14^th, I had the pleasure to be a community member who enjoyed the Hunts Point Fish Parade along with my family and so many others. The event, organized by The Point CDC, was everything that community and community events should strive towards. The Parade started in Hunts Point Riverside Park, where Addy, her son and the RTB crew were setting up for community rowing. From there, it marched towards Barretto Point Park, through the very communities that The Point serves and acted as a celebration and an invitation to participate in the day-long event at Barretto. My son and his friend rode along with Bronx Classics bike club, while I rode next to two kids with the oversize fishing poles and the juggler on the unicycle, ringing my bell to the rhythm, ding, ding, ding,-dingding. The concessions and tables were a mix of locals, local organizations and larger organizations that served food, offered games or shared information. As we walked around Barretto, filled by the way, with ten times the number of people I had ever seen there, I felt very much a part of a community. Adam and Kelly from the Point not only organized a great day, but there attitude of welcome made all feel at home.

Tomorrow, I will again walk past that little shrine made by George’s closest friends and the tears will again come. I have a little note that I want to leave next to the candle that my family placed on Friday afternoon. There will be an apology for never taking the time to really speak with him, and let him know that he will be remembered by our family. But I also have a message for him: There are some good things going on in our community, and every time I say hello to someone new, I’ll think of the daily reassurance that he once offered me, that I was a part of a community. Thank you, George.

DG

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