Mrs. C. and the Social Worker
by Kathleen Sullivan
Fifty years ago I knocked on Mrs. C.’s door.
The elevator I rode to the 10th floor
of the world’s largest housing project smelled like piss.
Only a chain link fence on the open edge
of the long balcony in front of her door promised sanctuary.
I was 22 and knew exactly nothing except I’d been sent to
ascertain Mrs. C’s psychic and interpersonal strengths.
To lift her out of poverty. In grad school, we studied Poverty,
the Culture of. The only other black person I’d met before
was the Fresh Air Kid who lived one summer in my parents’ basement.
Mrs. C and I met off and on. I remember only: not knowing
what to do with my smile and my hands,
how dark it was inside. In grad school, we didn’t study
Racism. In April, MLK was shot, Chicago burned.
We never got to say goodbye.
In 1998, they tore Robert Taylor Homes down.
Urban policy wonks once envisioned those 28 brick
fortresses (not one tree for succor) as a model of modern architecture
for the poor. It was the best dream
the collective minds of the 50’s could imagine.
I have a dream, he said. I’ve seen the promised land.
1 may not get there with you. I am not afraid
of any man. The next day we shot him. If I had a son
he would look like Travon Martin. Or Freddie
Gray or Michael Brown or Amadou Diallo.
Teach me, Mrs. C, about a mother’s fear
for her sons’ lives, her grief over their imprisonment,
the indignity when her daughters are spat upon.
Teach me about fury and grace.
Teach me how you step off the curb for the white
woman to pass, smile, whisper to the child at your side
not to mind because those white women ar
ignorant, not yet wise enough to have seen
the Glory of the Coming of the Lord.
Teach me this, Mrs. C, before we say goodbye.