¡Órale, pues!

Did I Really Just Say That?

Things I never thought would come out of my mouth:

• “Good luck in court tomorrow!”
• “Please stop calling me dawg.“
• “Did you just call me your n***?”
• “Don’t get the kittens high.  That’s cruel.”

I have also been trying to figure out why, without fail, the white boys I have as clients come to me with major attitudes.  Only the white boys.  Everyone else is a perfect angel to me.  They’re usually total pricks to everybody else, but have never unleashed their ‘tudes on me. 

I do wish that these perfect angels would stop doing two things.  The first is telling me the truth all the frickin’ time.  They lie or do something sketchy and then scamper on over to tell me the truth.  I am the holder of various secrets: the plan to slash tires, the undone court-ordered community service, the ass-whoopins and the family traumas.

The second is making me listen to amateur freestyle rap that they and their friends do.  Do I really look like I would groove on raps about bitches and ho’s and Glocks?  Maybe I do, but I really don’t think so.

Which leads me to one more thing I never thought I’d say:

“Perhaps you could switch out the ‘n****’ and replace it with ‘ninja.’  Good beats, though.”

Shedding My Tunnel Vision

Now that the weather is getting warmer, it feels like little bits of my brain are coming unstuck.  I’m finding that the path I trace everyday (work, grocery store, home) to be restrictive and I crave open spaces.  The urban landscape that I face every day is not enough, and I’m desperate to frolick in the woods!

I grew up in the ‘burbs, and have spent most of my life in beautiful, natural places.  Places where you can smell the change of seasons, but here in this city, the smells of spring are faint.

As the days get warmer, it’s becoming easier to relegate work and its attendent responsibilities to a corner of my life.  An important corner, but one that doesn’t wholly define me.

I’m amped for the buds on the trees, road trips to climb mountains, and new projects!

Oi Oi Oi

I’ve been feeling pretty oi, oi, oi lately.  My newest stress reliever is to lock myself in my co-worker’s fishbowl of an office and have her crank up “Fuck Her Gently” by Tenacious D.  Usually within the first few lines, I’m giggling hysterically and feeling much better. 

I’ve also found myself listening to a lot of AC/DC and Drop Kick Murphys, which is pretty much a sign that I’m full of tension. 

This past week, I threatened bodily harm to two of the guys I work with.

Your Highness and I took a little field trip to register him for his first GED exam and he was to stick around after filling out the paperwork to take his first exam.  He decided that he couldn’t wait the 45 minutes until the test all by himself, so we argued about whether I was going to take him home for a while.  He assured me that he’d have a ride to get back, but I was doubtful and told him that if he missed the test then I’d “hunt him down and murder him.” 

I then said that I might just book it out of the office, run to my car, and take off, leaving him at the testing site.  He laughed and told me that he’d hunt me down if I did that.  He reminded me that, after all, I’m the one that works in his ‘hood.

Another guy seriously tested the limits of my patience (a long, long story) and I told him that I wanted to scratch his eyeballs out.  Later on, when we weren’t as combative, I amended it to threatening to remove his vocal cords because he talks so damn much.

Before you decide that I’m psychotic and possibly violent, please understand that I’d never really inflict serious bodily harm on anyone.  Years ago I did pounce on a friend and earned the nickname Wolverina for that episode, but he definitely provoked me.  We’re still friends, though.

My week of tension and annoyances ended nicely, although I did have to flee my office a bit early because it turned into Romper Room for teenagers.  I decided to leave when I realized that the following activities were happening all at the same time in my immediate work area: one kid was playing the piano, four or five girls were listening to beats on a laptop and rehearsing for a performance, Your Highness was online chatting with his “ladies” while his friend listened to hip hop on YouTube, and five people were gathered around the foozball table.

We must be doing something right if all these people choose to hang out where I work rather than on the streets, but man, are they noisy!

A Convo with Your Highness

In any given week, I have to hassle this one client of mine innumerable ways.  Since I’ve started working with him, I’ve said the following: put your hair in cornrows, nobody hires a kid with a gigantic Afro; take off the do-rag; pull up your pants; don’t say the N-word; stop pissing off the GED teacher; take off your headphones, and on and on.

But last week, I had a conversation that I never thought I’d have.  Your Highness was amped because he was coming to get his taxes done for what he earned at his summer job, and he made me promise I’d be at work to receive him.  We do free taxes for low-income residents of the Bucket and our first night was this Wednesday.  He sauntered in just at 8:30 and there were about ten kids from his high school there just finishing up a meeting. 

Your Highness was incredibly ripped, and the first thing I said to him was, “Dude, open your eyes!!”  He tried to open his bloodshot eyes a little bit, but with the combination of the bright, fluorescent lights and the fact that he probably had half a blunt’s worth of smoke in his lungs, his attempt was half-hearted at best.

I partly found his state hysterically funny, but I was also somewhat annoyed that he chose to get cartoon-high just before showing up where I work.

I presume that my proper “social worker lady” role is to denounce any and all forms of drug use, no matter what my personal take on the matter is.  But I can’t in good conscience take the “Just Say No” stance on pot-smoking, no matter what my professional responsibility is.

So first thing the next day, I went to visit him where he takes his GED classes.  He had ended early, so I offered to drop him off on the way to my office.

My “social worker lady” talk went horribly awry in the first few minutes.  I asked him if he realized that he smelled like he went swimming in bong water before coming to the center, and just before I said bong water, he chimes in with “swimming in a reefer pool?”  Yes, Your Highness…swimming in a reefer pool is an excellent analogy, especially because I don’t if people even use bongs anymore, what with the prevalence of the Dutch Masters. 

I brought up the fact that many employers give drug tests before hiring, and we talked a bit about drug tests.  I asked if he smoked daily, and he told me: “No, not daily, but just about everyday.”  Um, Your Highness, daily means just about every day.  He giggled and said I was right. 

He told me that he’d thought about quitting, but that there’s nothing better to do and pot is everywhere.  I suggested that he perhaps cut down a bit, if only to be able to pass a drug test, rather than stop altogether. 

By now he’s looking at me like I’ve just sprouted horns. 

I conclude my half-arsed anti-drug talk by suggesting that he hydrate himself well in the event that someone requests that he pee in a little cup.  I shut myself up before telling him that the people who work at medical clinics that do drug tests tend to find it suspicious when someone’s pee is as clear as tap water, and that one needs to do some fast-talking to explain why. 

I wonder what he took away from this little convo.  I’ve no problem with telling someone that crack is whack or that crystal meth rots your teeth and makes you want to steal car rims, but I can’t do the same for reefer.  Hell, most of my friends piss seeds and stems, to paraphrase my beloved David Sedaris.

How could I have handled this better?