Thursday, February 26, 2009

Aging white suburban woman reflexively lapses into language patterns of the Baltimore underclass

I love The Wire, the HBO series, and I love watching great series on DVD, but I’m compulsive and once I get started, I can’t stop. Also it gets me talking like Bodie.

This is a problem near the end of winter in Chicago, permapiles of black snow dotting the parking lots and the hope of spring not quite evident. Start watching a depressing (though wonderful) collection of stories and you can get caught up. It gets embedded in your brain, in your whole way of thinking.

It’s easy for me to slip into the world, since I operated on the periphery of one a lot like it 30 years ago as one of those dreaded community organizers in St. Louis, a city very like Baltimore: old, a little southern, beaten-down. I was a community involvement coordinator for the St. Louis Public Schools working in the voluntary desegregation program, part of a consent decree that preceded court-ordered busing in 1980. The Magnet School District office was located in an old elementary school at Pendleton and Enright, something like the cast-off digs of the major case squad on the show.

I had to do an intervention on myself on Sunday after a 12-hour streak. I made myself get up, and I ran through some of the things I should be doing around the house. Talking to myself, I said, “OK, I need to take the clothes out of the washer. Then I gotta dry that shit up.”