I have been single-handedly "in charge" of an after-school program that operates at Kings Place for two or three weeks now, and I don't really have any other choice, if I want to keep my job, than to just go with the flow. It's about 7:00 pm, and the two after-school program assistants, Sam and Latisha, are standing, talking and laughing with about 8 - 10 of our kids (grades K - 5) and a few of their parents. In a frantic, last-minute attempt to meet the programming requirements of a "Family Literacy" grant (there were insane financial requirements to be met, too, but that's another story), my executive director , Elizabeth, has charged me with running a few parent and kid joint evening education sessions. Tonight, Sam and Latisha talked with our kids, who are all black or Latino/a and live in Kings Place or in nearby complexes, about the importance of career planning and saving money, while another person from my organization came and talked about homeownership to a few parents in the back room. We had pizza to bribe/get everyone interested in coming. It wasn't my favorite task, but I'll take any guidance, planning and help I can get from Elizabeth at this point.
We're all standing around, and I think one of the kids comes out of the bathroom behind me and tells me something is wrong. And I'm not sure what hits me first - the water coming out of the bathroom floor, running into the cabinet where we keep the paints, or the smell.
We get everyone out, including the man from my organization who observes the problem and says "Oh no" and eats a slice of the remaining pizza and leaves, and then it's just me, Sam and Latisha, as the water keeps coming out of the toilet and the smell keeps getting stronger. Sam says, "That is raw sewage. Do not stay here." He leaves with Latisha and I am alone. The water, which basically by now is not just water, keeps coming. It's hit the step that goes up to my office (which, lucky for me, is and will remain above the level where the sewage is flowing) - it's hit the table legs, the bottom of a bookshelf, under the fridge, and it's soaking into the rug.
I don't know who I called first. I didn't even think to call the property manager right away. The woman who was supposed to be co-supervisor of the program with me, Tracy, did email his name to me, in the minutes where she remained in the office after she had announced her resignation at a staff meeting that morning and before she drove away never to be seen again - on my 4th day of work. But I hadn't figured out yet that in apartment complexes, property management and the emergency maintenance staff is absolutely the first person you should call with a maintenance emergency. And I don't know what the emergency line is. I call the manager's office and leave a message.
Then I called Elizabeth, my boss, and then I think I Googled emergency plumbing companies. I found a number for one in DC nearby and called - receptionist says he can send a plumber out to me in about an hour and a half. I hang up the phone. Outside my office, the sewage is still spilling out, with a greater flow rate every time someone in the apartments above the community room flush their own toilets. There is no avoiding it now, and I've got to get out of the room. I gingerly hold up my skirt and step through the sewage, in my nice black leather boots that will go into a paper bag and into the trash when I get home.
I go outside, sit on the curb of the parking lot, and cry for awhile. It's dark, and I work in an apartment complex in an area of Prince George's County where the poverty rate is high and it's a struggle for many residents to make rent and keep the lights on. In a month or two, a young man will be shot in one of the hallways of the complex. A month or so after that, four young brothers (all in elementary school), along with the 20+ other kids in the program, will see their uncle chased by a police officer during an outside play break.
I'm not really scared, and I am where I want to be. I'm just super fucking frustrated.
The plumber shows up. I go inside with him. The farthest edge of the sewage has made it about 15-20 feet or so from the bathroom, across the rug, to the door of the community room. His eyes widen. I go back outside while he scopes it out. He comes out and says "it's going to be $450." We discuss payment options. I have no company checkbook. The charge ends up going on my credit card. (I am reimbursed immediately the following day out of my organization's emergency fund.) He takes a big plumber's snake in and is basically able to make it down to the jam and get the flowing to stop, after about 30-45 minutes worth of work. He packs up his equipment. I lock up, get in my car and drive home. It's about 10:00 pm.
I am exhausted, cry a bunch more, and make it 7/8 of the way home by thinking about the joys of a shower. But as I make it to the second to last turn to get to my house, at about 10:20 pm, a thought comes to me. It could be worse. I have a full time job. I am working with children and families who have less than I have, and my presence will make a positive difference in their quality of life. I have a shower and a bed and a home to go to, and a car to get me there.
I'm all right.
The next morning, when I come into the community room, two porters are mopping and cleaning up the sewage. They throw away the rug and sanitize as best as possible the edges of the furniture that were hit by the sewage. In a few months, I will assist one of them with her family's applications for food stamps and Medicaid. The property manager stops by in the afternoon.
Christmas break is coming and I'll be able to deal with the piles and piles of unfiled confidential client data, printed out emails, miscellaneous grant information, kids work, community event fliers, and office supplies that my predecessor left out in shelves and on desks and in file drawers, during that week when the after-school program is not in session. I'll plan meetings with Sam and Latisha and try to make our working relationship as good or better than what they had with previous supervisors, and together we will make some plans for working with our 20+ kids. I'll advertise for volunteer tutors and maybe we'll hire someone else.
It could be worse.
I go outside, sit on the curb of the parking lot, and cry for awhile. It's dark, and I work in an apartment complex in an area of Prince George's County where the poverty rate is high and it's a struggle for many residents to make rent and keep the lights on. In a month or two, a young man will be shot in one of the hallways of the complex. A month or so after that, four young brothers (all in elementary school), along with the 20+ other kids in the program, will see their uncle chased by a police officer during an outside play break.
I'm not really scared, and I am where I want to be. I'm just super fucking frustrated.
The plumber shows up. I go inside with him. The farthest edge of the sewage has made it about 15-20 feet or so from the bathroom, across the rug, to the door of the community room. His eyes widen. I go back outside while he scopes it out. He comes out and says "it's going to be $450." We discuss payment options. I have no company checkbook. The charge ends up going on my credit card. (I am reimbursed immediately the following day out of my organization's emergency fund.) He takes a big plumber's snake in and is basically able to make it down to the jam and get the flowing to stop, after about 30-45 minutes worth of work. He packs up his equipment. I lock up, get in my car and drive home. It's about 10:00 pm.
I am exhausted, cry a bunch more, and make it 7/8 of the way home by thinking about the joys of a shower. But as I make it to the second to last turn to get to my house, at about 10:20 pm, a thought comes to me. It could be worse. I have a full time job. I am working with children and families who have less than I have, and my presence will make a positive difference in their quality of life. I have a shower and a bed and a home to go to, and a car to get me there.
I'm all right.
The next morning, when I come into the community room, two porters are mopping and cleaning up the sewage. They throw away the rug and sanitize as best as possible the edges of the furniture that were hit by the sewage. In a few months, I will assist one of them with her family's applications for food stamps and Medicaid. The property manager stops by in the afternoon.
Christmas break is coming and I'll be able to deal with the piles and piles of unfiled confidential client data, printed out emails, miscellaneous grant information, kids work, community event fliers, and office supplies that my predecessor left out in shelves and on desks and in file drawers, during that week when the after-school program is not in session. I'll plan meetings with Sam and Latisha and try to make our working relationship as good or better than what they had with previous supervisors, and together we will make some plans for working with our 20+ kids. I'll advertise for volunteer tutors and maybe we'll hire someone else.
It could be worse.
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