With the Fire on High(16)
He raises a questioning eyebrow at my curse correction, but drops it. “What are you writing yours on?” he asks.
I cut around the corner on my way to my next class. “We don’t have Cul Arts until later in the day, Malachi; where are you going?”
“Just walking you to class, Santi.”
I stutter to a stop near a water fountain. “Malachi, we aren’t friends. We can be friendly, but I don’t want you to get it twisted. I know you’re new and I’m not trying to be mean. But I just want to be clear . . . we, you and me? Aren’t friends.”
I wouldn’t always have been able to say that to someone. I was so quiet and shy and surprised to get any attention at all. But the toddler books all suggest moms practice direct and clear language, managing expectations, giving explicit instructions, et cetera. Sometimes I think boys are just like babies when it comes to something they want—and they need to be told no, firmly and without qualification.
Malachi reaches up and pulls on one of my curls. “Okay, Santi. We aren’t friends. Can I walk in the same direction as you until you get to your class?”
“Won’t you be late for yours?”
He shrugs. “‘We, you and me, aren’t friends,’ so don’t you even worry about my attendance record, Santi.” He flashes his smile, and at the sight of his dimples I almost melt. “Plus, you are one of the few kids I’ve had actual conversations with. Why don’t you tell me some things I should make sure to see in the city?”
And although I don’t want to encourage Malachi more than necessary, I’m always looking for a reason to big-up my city. “Well, let’s start with cheesesteaks. The spot all the tourists go to? Basura. The best cheesesteaks . . .”
A Tale of Two Cities
I come from a place in Philadelphia that reminds me of a Charles Dickens book we read in English. The Tale of Two Cities one that’s set in Paris and London during and after the French Revolution. But the place I come from ain’t nowhere close to Europe. I’m from Fairhill. It sounds pretty, don’t it? And for a lot of outsiders, the name is the only pretty thing about it.
Most folks are Puerto Rican. Julio tells me this neighborhood has the highest rate of Puerto Ricans outside of the island. I don’t know why, though. It doesn’t look anything like pictures of the island I’ve seen. Blocks and blocks of two-story row houses, concrete, fenced-in yards, and vacant lots. People have had a lot to say about our neck of the woods, but in general, they should probably keep their neck out our business. This part of North Philly has one of the highest crime rates in the city, or at least that’s what the newspaper reports. They call us part of the Badlands, but when you stay here, you know there’s a lot more goodness than is reported in the news.
Sure, we have gang fights that happen to the soundtrack of gunshots, but we also have dance crews that perform at the summer block parties. We have el Centro de Oro, the strip of Puerto Rican shops where you can get everything from oversized flags to island spices to hand-carved mortar and pestles. We have corner-store owners who hand out candy during Halloween, and the barbershop on the block that keeps a cooler of cold water out front in the summer. We got the rec center where most of us grew up doing our homework, where I received teen-parenting classes and counseling while pregnant, and we got the cultural center a few blocks over that has art workshops, free English lessons, and even brings in live bands for concerts.
Maybe it’s more than just a tale of two cities; it’s a tale of two neighborhoods. On the one hand, people are scared to come over here because they say this part of town is dangerous, “undeveloped,” and a part of me thinks, good, keep out, then. But everyone knows that the good things like farmers’ markets, and updated grocery stores, and consistent trash pickup only happen when outsiders move in. And as much as it seems our neighborhood is forgotten, change is coming. I’ve been seeing more and more construction sites and lots of houses with SOLD signs, and more than ever before white people have been getting off at my train stop, eating at Freddy & Tony’s, wearing their fancy college sweaters and looking like they are nervously making their way home. Home. I come from a place that’s as sweet as the freshest berry, as sour as curdled milk; where we dream of owning mansions and leaving the hood; where we couldn’t imagine having been raised anywhere else. People wonder why I walk so hard, why I smile so rarely at strangers, why I mean mug and carry grit like loose change in my pocket.
And everyone in Philadelphia reps their hood just like me. One of the first things you ask and learn about someone is where they stay. Where we come from leaves its fingerprints all over us, and if you know how to read the signs of a place, you know a little bit more who someone is.
And me? I’m pure Fairhill, but I also got more than one city, one hood inside me. And anyone who wants to get to know me has to know how to appreciate the multiple skylines.
Fail
“Under what conditions do pathogens that contaminate food grow?” Chef Ayden scans the room. “Sharif?” Sharif looks down at his station as if the answer is written in magical ink. He shrugs. Chef Ayden makes a note on his clipboard. Today we were surprised with a verbal pop quiz. In addition to studying the components of a recipe, learning to plate, and learning to serve, Chef Ayden also wants us to prepare for the ServSafe test. He rarely quizzes us like other teachers, with a written-down test. Instead he asks questions out loud and you have to be quick on your feet. He says being able to respond quickly and efficiently is how it will be in a real kitchen. And although we hate the quizzes, we all want to pass the ServSafe test. If we pass that test, not only do we pass the class, but we are also given a certificate by the city that proves we know how to safely handle food and can work at a restaurant. Technically, with that certificate I could apply to take over Steve’s job at the Burger Joint. I don’t want Steve’s job, but I like knowing I have the credentials to take it from him if I wanted to.