Double Dutch Revelations
Even the best magic can't erase reality, and it was in one of these moments recently that the reality of life in Bed-Stuy came back on us with a jolt.
The kids and I were out on the street, them jumping, me watching as we all waited for everyone to arrive for group therapy. We were laughing and joking and forgetting for a moment that some of us were bloods and some of us were crips and some of us had gotten our ass kicked on the way there and some would surely get jumped on the way home. We were laughing and forgetting, until it happened.
There was a sound.
A terrible, loud crack of a sound that rushed close up on us and reverberated in our ears and stopped time to deafen all the other street noise, and it came from close by. Too close. About 10 feet away close.
I stood in the street, and I knew it was a gunshot. I knew that I was standing in the middle of the street with 12 kids and no cover, and no idea how to protect them, or me, or get beyond the fact that someone was shooting at us. My kids are gang kids, and it had just caught up to us all.
After about 15 seconds, which felt like about 15 hours, I turned, only to see that all of my kids had simultaneously hit the deck.
Seriously.
12 kids, and every single one of them reacted instantly without hesitating, questioning, or feeling in the least bit surprised or taken off guard. They just hit the ground in one fluid, instinctual movement. One of them was crouching and repeating my name, pulling at me to crouch with them.
Instead, I looked down the block where the shot had come from. A group of teenage boys were emerging from behind a few cars and looking down the block at us. One of them ran into the street, crouched, and ran away quickly. Two seconds later, we heard another crack and the boys scattered.
It wasn't a gunshot at all, it was some kind of super firecracker. The kids got up, brushed themselves off and stepped right back into their double dutch game. Within seconds, the slap of the cord on the pavement was beating out a rhythm that my kids fell in step with easily, unphased.
"It's all right, Ms. Julie," one of them said to me, noticing that I still hadn't moved from my spot in the street and mistaking my frozen stance for residual fear or shock. What I felt wasn't fear, though. Not after those first seconds, anyway. Rather, what I felt was guilt. Guilt at growing up white and not in Bed Stuy, and for privilege, the kind that my kids will be lucky to ever reach a point where they understand they were denied.
All of us, the kids and I, had thought it was a gunshot.
I was the only one lucky enough to not know what to do. ¶ 11:25 PM
Saturday, June 17, 2006
Double Dutch, it seems, is built into the chemical composition of little girls who grow up in Bed Stuy. When I first watched my kids grab some spare phone cord and hit the pavement to show their stuff, it was as if I had suddenly dropped into another country. Pop-ups, snappers, kick-overs, peppers, can-cans, and threesies were the language they spoke, and they all seemed to know not just the words but the accepted jump etiquette. The gang repping and the ho-ing and the bitches and infighting melted into grudging respect and admiration for the moves. Everybody's moves. Even when the moves weren't executed perfectly or even well. Apparently, you don't fuck with Double Dutch. Emily Post had landed in Bed-Stuy in the form of a rope rhythm, and watching them respect and support each other was amazing. It was some kind of street magic, and it was wonderful to watch.Even the best magic can't erase reality, and it was in one of these moments recently that the reality of life in Bed-Stuy came back on us with a jolt.
The kids and I were out on the street, them jumping, me watching as we all waited for everyone to arrive for group therapy. We were laughing and joking and forgetting for a moment that some of us were bloods and some of us were crips and some of us had gotten our ass kicked on the way there and some would surely get jumped on the way home. We were laughing and forgetting, until it happened.
There was a sound.
A terrible, loud crack of a sound that rushed close up on us and reverberated in our ears and stopped time to deafen all the other street noise, and it came from close by. Too close. About 10 feet away close.
I stood in the street, and I knew it was a gunshot. I knew that I was standing in the middle of the street with 12 kids and no cover, and no idea how to protect them, or me, or get beyond the fact that someone was shooting at us. My kids are gang kids, and it had just caught up to us all.
After about 15 seconds, which felt like about 15 hours, I turned, only to see that all of my kids had simultaneously hit the deck.
Seriously.
12 kids, and every single one of them reacted instantly without hesitating, questioning, or feeling in the least bit surprised or taken off guard. They just hit the ground in one fluid, instinctual movement. One of them was crouching and repeating my name, pulling at me to crouch with them.
Instead, I looked down the block where the shot had come from. A group of teenage boys were emerging from behind a few cars and looking down the block at us. One of them ran into the street, crouched, and ran away quickly. Two seconds later, we heard another crack and the boys scattered.
It wasn't a gunshot at all, it was some kind of super firecracker. The kids got up, brushed themselves off and stepped right back into their double dutch game. Within seconds, the slap of the cord on the pavement was beating out a rhythm that my kids fell in step with easily, unphased.
"It's all right, Ms. Julie," one of them said to me, noticing that I still hadn't moved from my spot in the street and mistaking my frozen stance for residual fear or shock. What I felt wasn't fear, though. Not after those first seconds, anyway. Rather, what I felt was guilt. Guilt at growing up white and not in Bed Stuy, and for privilege, the kind that my kids will be lucky to ever reach a point where they understand they were denied.
All of us, the kids and I, had thought it was a gunshot.
I was the only one lucky enough to not know what to do. ¶ 11:25 PM
