Like Rain on Parked Cars, Chapter 1 – Aretha

Autumn leaves, Author W.carter, (CC BY-SA 4.0 International)

When I let Aretha (not her real name) know that I wanted to do a book on poverty and asked for permission to include aspects of her life in the book, she was enthusiastic.  “People are livin’ without heat.  Somebody’s gotta do somethin’,” she said.

This is narrative non-fiction.  Names have been changed in the interest of privacy.  But events like these are playing out daily in cities across America.  They reflect tragic statistical realities.

The conclusions reached and solutions proposed constitute my best efforts to understand and respond to heart wrenching situations, many of which I have observed firsthand.  Admittedly, those conclusions may be in error; the solutions, inadequate.  I implore greater minds to do better.

Despite all this, I have tried to remain faithful to Aretha’s own story.  I’ve had no need to exaggerate or embellish that story.  Aretha’s valor speaks for itself.

But Aretha’s is just one story of poverty in America.  There are, literally, millions.  My hope in telling her story is that by personalizing the problem, I may in some small way give voice to those millions.

And that somebody will do something.

“That our daughters may be as pillars, Sculptured in palace style” (Ps. 144: 12).

It was to be a temporary thing, a trial run, really.  I had no desire to mentor a teenager – let alone a streetwise girl, from the inner city.  Childless, myself, I was not trained or equipped for the challenge.

After all, what could we possibly have in common?  And teenagers were notoriously uncommunicative.  Family and friends cautioned me not to expect too much from the relationship.

As a lawyer, enamored of books all my life, surely I would bore her to death.  Then there was the question of race.  My shortcomings – real and imagined – loomed large.

Still, Ruth had convinced me to meet the girl.  An experienced social worker, Ruth Hammond headed the volunteer program at a respected children’s relief organization.  Grey haired, witness to much suffering and sadness over the years, Ruth said she had a “feeling” the girl and I might click.

We drove to Lansdale by back roads, my eyes fixed on Ruth’s license plate and my hands gripping the wheel.  Since I have no geographic sense, this was both a literal and figurative journey into the unknown.

Misgivings rose repeatedly in my chest, and were pushed down.  Warnings bounced randomly around in my head.  Stay calm, I told myself.  You can always back out.  Just assess the situation.

At least the October day was bright with promise.  Leaves had changed into their autumn gowns, some already on the ground in piles or scattered across lawns, others still fearful of taking flight.

Then Ruth made a final turn, pulled her car over, and parked.  I did the same.  My hands were clammy, as I got out of the car.

I smiled to cover my nervousness though Ruth, I am sure, was aware of it.  Together we walked through the gate, my thoughts as scattered as the leaves.  Suddenly, there she was on the path before us.  Smiling, broadly.

There was no mistaking her.  Casually dressed but well groomed, she looked bright and eager, much older than her fifteen years.  Beaming from a face the warm color of milk chocolate, that 1000 watt smile could have parted the clouds.

I had brought a rose, and handed it to her, introducing myself.  “Aretha” she said firmly, delighted with the rose.  So far so good.

We decided to sit at a wooden table in the yard to get acquainted, instead of going inside to the group home where Aretha lived.  I can’t recall whether Ruth tossed out a topic to break the ice.  It didn’t matter very much.

Confident and cheerful, Aretha began by telling me she’d signed up for the program on hearing there would be a lawyer involved.  Her goal was to become a business lawyer, and make as much money as possible.  I could not help laughing.

Money has never been a great motivator for me.  Nor has the legal profession made me wealthy.  But the idea that a young woman might want to use the law to make a better life for herself, I could understand completely.

Aretha told me she enjoyed reading and music.  When I said I was unfamiliar with hip-hop, she clarified that it was actually classical she preferred.

Was this possible?  We seemed to be made for each other as mentor and protégé, talked and laughed easily.  I was not convinced, however, that Aretha had been entirely truthful with me.  Perhaps she was anxious to please, saying what she assumed I wanted to hear.

Only time would tell.

Though I could not be certain what lay ahead, I let Ruth know as we left that I would go forward with the mentor relationship.  And so we began.

Copyright © 2010 – Present Anna Waldherr.  All rights reserved.

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