Among Rubble

I rode the bus with Sheila, sweating from the heat of too many bodies crammed into a city bus on a scorching day.  Although the fans of the air conditioner huffed with exhaustion, they could not keep up with the sun's cruel rays invading the metal vehicle.  As we moved through the streets to the city council, she pointed down nearly every other street, “I lived there when I was four with my parents”  “That’s the park where I scraped my knee”  “I lived there with my Mom when I was six”  “I lived there with my Dad when…” I asked her how many places she’s lived and she explained that there were far too many to count.  Her mom moved around a lot “But I haven’t seen her in years now.”  She goes quiet, I don’t ask. 

Sheila is one of my bilingual students at the high school where I teach.  In class, she is the girl who sits with her head down, face hidden behind a curtain of tight black curls, silently drawing song lyrics on the face of her desk.  After class she wipes them away, and moves on with her day.  In a community graffiti class however, she is silly and playful.  She is confident, laughs a lot and jokes around.  All until she picks up a spray can.  Then, she is all business, focused and perfecting hours on end.  

"I don't want to live among rubble"- Orcasitas 1957

 As we arrived to the city council, we navigated through the security checks and around official looking desks until we reached the office of Public Works.  Here we presented a sketch on an outstretched piece of paper.  “We want to do a mural.”  The three official men in suits looked at the two of us disapprovingly. They tried to explain that the bureaucracy concerning permission for a project like this was a nightmare.  They attacked each argument we made in favor of the project, insulted my Spanish and dismissed the sketch.  Finally Sheila spoke up, “Listen, a lot of people complain about the aesthetics of this neighborhood.  They go around doing graffiti trying to make it better but only make it worse.  This is a way to do something good for our neighborhood.”  They told us they’d think it over and pass it up the chain of command.  We’d know by Friday.

Sheila and I walked out of the building silently.  We got to the bus stop.  She turned to me and said, “Do you want an ice cream?”  I said “Sure.”  We both got a cookie ice cream sandwich and made our way back through the neighborhood to the school.  

This mural may change Sheila more than the neighborhood. She is engaged, focused and has plans to create art as her future career. Yet I see myself growing right along with her.