I guess it made a lasting impression...

Five years ago, a group of friends from our church here in DC used to go down every Friday afternoon/evening to the sand volleyball courts by the Potomac River and play a few games of pick up.  Having played volleyball very, very momentarily in high school, it was always a fun time to connect with friends, get a tiny bit of exercise and impress people with my amazing serve.  Which I'm obviously very humble about.

One Friday that summer, we had just finished a set of games and decided that the logical step after completing said games was to go gorge ourselves on local Mexican food.  A little place down on the Hill (where 99.9% of our friends lived back then) was chosen and we made the drive across the city, sweaty and sandy, but in a good mood and ready for even more of a good time. 

Sitting down at a booth once we arrived, I looked up and realized that there were more friends there than I had expected.  So of course I scooted (scootched?) down the bench, hoping to make room.  And then I felt a very sharp, sharp pain and a little throbbing.

My foot was gushing blood, punctured by a broken beer bottle that was lodged under a table.

I don't remember exactly what happened next, but I know I didn't scream or cry.  I think I motioned that my foot was gushing blood (in case people couldn't see it) and I tried to hop back to the bathroom of the restaurant.  Did I mention that my foot was gushing blood?  Spurting, really, is a better way to describe it.  I'm pretty sure there was blood on the walls.

Finally making it back to the bathroom, I began to feel light-headed.  Did I mention blood was shooting out of me?  I sat down in the bathroom and was immediately swarmed by well-intentioned women who worked at the restaurant.  Unable to understand what they were saying to me, all I could really understand was, "This will stop the bleeding" as they poured coffee grounds on my foot.  Reader, I swear to you that I am not making this up.  Thankfully, one of our friends finally had the bright idea that I needed to get to the emergency room, and so one of the guys carried me out to his car (this would have been somewhat romantic had I, 1) not been gushing blood and 2) been in a clear state of mind).  Finally arriving up at the emergency room, the doctor took one look at me, told me the worst part was the coffee grounds that had been poured into the wound and then gave me three little stitches to sew me up (did I mention he had to first dig out the coffee grounds?  Oh yes.  That was not pleasant.)

Needless to say, the restaurant felt very, very bad.  They covered the medical costs, but still felt remorse for the "emotional damage" that had been done.  How to repair that?  Why, free drinks every time I came in of course!  And reader, I'll be honest.  I took advantage of it (as did some of my friends).  When a bill would come near, I would wince and say, "oh, my foot," always guaranteed that the bill would be taken care of.

(Ok, I didn't really do that.  But I thought about it once or twice.)

This past weekend, over five years later, M and I were craving Mexican food and decided to stop by Las Plas for the first time since moving back.  We shared a meal, I had sangria, he had a beer, and we were about to ask for our check when.....

Free drinks appeared.  Not just one, but multiple.  Like, flowing.  And, sure enough, the waiter who had been there on Bloody Friday walked over to me to say hello.  Did you catch that the cutting incident was OVER FIVE YEARS AGO?  The waiter even asked me where I had been the last two years (I have good friends who didn't even realize we were gone!)  He said, "I still remember you.  It's good to have you back."

I guess it made a lasting impression. 

Seven Words

I don't know why Mr. L is at the Pre-Release Center** and I may very well not want to know.  A man in his mid-40s, Mr. L has spent most of his life in and out of prison, most of it being in.

Mr. L says "I can't read real good."  What he means by that is that he can't read at all.  Besides his name, there are very few things that he can spell correctly or even write; even though he graduated from high school (yes, you read that right) his basic language, writing and reading skills are lower than those of the 3rd and 4th graders I tutored in Chicago.

This is not ok.

And so one of the mentors that I work with, Miss J, tutors him for 3 or 4 hours a week.  Persistent, hardworking and always affirming, Miss J takes hours out of her schedule (during the middle of the work day at that!) to come and spend with Mr. L, literally starting with the ABCs.  Miss J constantly has to remind Mr. L that the levels stated on the books they're using (ages 5-6, grade K, 1 and 2) aren't what's important; what's important is that he's learning.

Last week, Mr. L had a test.  Write down, in order, the days of the week.  Miss J was certain he could do it, and told him that she knew he could.  "You already know the last three letters of each and every one of them.  All you have to remember is the others!" Miss J reminded Mr. L.  But after just a few minutes, Mr. L shoved his paper across the table, filled with what could only be described as jibberish.

"Mr. L, you know this.  You can do this.  You know the answer!" Miss J reaffirmed as she pushed the paper back across the table to Mr. L.

And this time, after another 3 or 4 minutes, Mr. L slowly passed the paper across the table.  "There, I'm done.  I think I got it."

Glancing quickly across the words, Miss J knew that he had written each and every day- all seven- perfectly and in order.  "You did it!" Miss J cried.

And what Mr. L said next is what brought me to tears as Miss J told me this story over lunch one day.  "Never in my life have I spelled seven words correctly, all at one sitting.  I didn't think I could do it."

Seven words.  And a jolt of self-confidence so desperately needed.

_______________



**The Pre-Release Center is a county facility at which inmates may serve out the last 3-12 months of their sentence.  Focused on rehabilitation, employment and support, the PRC provides the much-needed step between full incarceration and civil society.  As the Welcome Home Program Coordinator, I get to match the residents of the PRC up with mentors from around the greater Washington area.