Babies.

Faithful readers, I must apologize. I started writing this story on April 3rd. That's right. Twenty-seven days ago. And now, having gone to all of my classes for the semester, with only two preposterously easy finals and a grueling move-out day ahead, I am finally going to finish writing this story. So sit back, relax, read silently to yourself or read aloud for all to hear, and enjoy the story you should've been able to read almost four weeks ago.

Last month, I took a trip to the nation's capital. As is the case whenever I take a trip, I have returned with stories to tell.

STORY NUMERO UNO: JUVENILE ADVENTURES

First, let me go back even further to my trip to the Cleveland International Film Festival. Understand, there were at least twenty college students together in a mall, waiting for a couple of hours for our next film to begin. If all the stores close at seven o’clock, what are a bunch of bored college students supposed to do for almost three hours until their next movie begins?

Being the inventive type, we went all out here. We did the unthinkable. About fifteen of us congregated on the round benches to read. That's right. Young adults reading in a public place. Then four of us got even more daring. Taking chairs down off of a table in the (closed) food court, we began a rousing game of euchre.

Just as the game was picking up, as James was remembering the rules, and as we were getting competitive, a security guard approached. Let's give him a name. We shall call him Deputy Powertrippingassmuncher, or Deputy Assmunch for short. He was a little man with a big, goofy hat and an unimpressive tan uniform.

Deputy Assmunch informed us that the food court was closed and that we would need to move away from the table. Fine. We could handle that. We lovingly placed the chairs atop the table and proceeded to the circular benches. Now, one must not forget that circular benches are, in no way whatsoever, conducive to a four-player card game.

Thus, we sat down on the floor. Before we had even dealt the third hand, before we had gotten back into our murderous competitive modes, and before Mini and I had had a chance to finish stomping James and Mandy, Deputy Assmunch approached again. "You can't sit here. And let me just give you a card so I don't have to keep bothering you."

(A) The card in no way says that sitting on the floor is prohibited.
(B) The card is in no way applicable to us.

Let us review the contents of the card:

It begins, "In accordance with the posted code of conduct, management has determined that current conditions contribute to an unmanageable overflow of juveniles. Therefore, juveniles under the age of 18 who are not accompanied by an adult and en route to a specific business, RTA, or the theater are being asked to leave the premises today. Theater patrons may wait at the theater or return to the Center at show time."

Let us break this down.

1. An unmanageable overflow of juveniles. How many juveniles does it take to create an unmanageable overflow? Certainly there could be some juveniles in the Center without it becoming an "unmanageable overflow." And isn't it the job of management to make the juveniles manageable? Come on, now.
2. Juveniles under the age of 18. Well, no shit. By definition, juveniles are always under the age of 18.
3. Are being asked to leave the premises today. Just today? Really? Would they print up the cards just for today? The card might as well say, "Attention: By order of Deputy Powertrippingassmuncher and all other such moronic low-level bureaucrats employed by the Center, all ye who still need parental consent to do anything cool are hereby told to take your diapered asses homes and keep them there.”

Then, we continued story time with the back of the card, which provides 13 guidelines in a strict code of conduct. Some of my favorites follow:

1. Juvenile groups of four (4) or more will be dispersed. Customers must move in an orderly fashion through the premises and not block walkways or store entrances.
2. Seating benches are to be used for shopping breaks not to exceed 15 minutes.
3. Food Court seating is for paying customers of the Food Court.
4. Loud and boisterous behavior will not be permitted.
5. Obscene or offensive language will not be permitted.
6. Running, inappropriate behavior, vandalism or any unacceptable conduct on the premises will be grounds for ejection.
7. When conditions contribute to an overflow of juveniles management reserves the right to disperse and/or eject individuals or groups.
8. Proper clothing is required at all times, which includes shoes, shirts and no gang attire or colors.

Again, let us break this down.

1. How is the fact that they are going to break up groups of juveniles related to moving through the premises in an orderly fashion? And who gets to decide what an orderly fashion is? I may decide that running backwards through the walkways is a great idea--and I may even consider it orderly in a non-conformist sort of way.
2. Seating benches. Shopping breaks. No more than fifteen minutes. How do they plan to enforce this rule? Rather than having a meter maid, they should have a bench maid, who will require a notarized receipt before you can sit down, and who will then time your sitting break, kicking you off the bench and back to the shopping scene after fourteen minutes and fifty-nine seconds.
3. Paying customers of the Food Court, huh? Well, if I bought food there during the film festival, then I suppose I could still consider myself a paying customer when I return for the film festival next year. They should really be more specific.
4. LOUD NOISES. BOISTEROUS BEHAVIORS. I could define those adjectives so many different ways. . . *sigh* it would almost be fun to try to convince someone who was talking at what we consider a normal level that he was yelling. It's all relative, so who is he to argue with security? They've got badges. And goofy hats. I wonder whether they have the plastic hat covers that sheriffs have. . .
5. See above. I think I'd come up with a new curse word each day. Perhaps those damn juveniles should be kicked out if they even so much as dare to think the word "head" (used in any context; example: "I have a head ache." --> "Bam! Juveniles! Get out. You read the card. No offensive language. Assholes.")
6. Okay. I understand why you would prohibit running and vandalism. But what is inappropriate behavior? What about unacceptable conduct? "Your voice was screechy and I didn't find that acceptable, so because you talked, I'm going to have to ask you to leave the premises"?
7. See number 1 in the first list of this entry.
8. I'm assuming that gang colors are really just colors like every other. So if I decide I want to wear red, is that possible grounds for ejection from the mall? I'm obviously not a gang member, nor do I want to be, nor would any gang ever accept me anyway. So what happens if someone dresses in "gang attire" or "gang colors" by accident? It could be an innocent wigger mistake.

Taking the card (cue: Choir of angels singing hallelujah chorus, halo of light shining through the clouds), and suppressing the urge to shove it up Deputy Assmunch's . . . yeah. . . I wasn't happy. And the event was somewhat repeated in Washington, D.C.

(Will you tell us what happened? Please? Please!?) Certainly, my children. Be patient, lest I have to disperse your unmanageable overflow of juvenile demands. (That made no sense.) I know. Let's move on.

I was walking in a group of six people in Washington, D.C., trying to waste time in the vicinity of our playhouse. Yet again, we were waiting for something to begin. (Yes, this happens a lot. Go figure.)

For some unknown reason, on this particular day I really wanted to just sit in a church. It all started when we were getting lunch in Chinatown and I saw a church with absolutely gorgeous stained glass windows. I wanted to go inside and sit down for a minute to enjoy the surroundings, but all of the doors were locked. (To the people in charge of said church, I send my praise: way to bring in the masses and make everyone welcome in the House of God.)

So then, when we were wandering aimlessly, we spotted two more churches. One was surrounded by groups of people who looked as though they would kick our asses, so that was out. The other was palatial and intriguing. It also had a neat little courtyard. We walked through the open gate into the courtyard and I was headed into a door when I noticed a receptionist at a round desk. I was instantly intimidated (you all know how I feel about low-level bureaucrats who have been given one responsibility: to guard a doorway, and who take that duty seriously), so I turned around and was walking back out.

At that precise moment, a young man was walking out of the church. He asked kindly whether he could help us and when I said, “Oh, no, thank you,” and proceeded to walk back to my group and down the sidewalk, we noticed that he was following us. We stopped for a moment and he stopped. We walked to the corner and he walked to the corner of the church grounds and sat on the steps to the church. He just sat and watched us. So we stood there and pretended to be plotting.

“Okay, guys. This pisses me off. All I wanted to do was sit in a fucking church for a moment. Is that so much to ask? If this guy wants to act as though we’re terrorists or a bunch of vandalizing juveniles, then I’m going to give him something to watch. Does he think we’re packing bombs or spray paint or what? Let’s head back past him. You three, I want you to keep walking straight. You two are with me, we’re going to split off to the right. Ready, team? Break!”

We walked back toward the young man who was still watching us from his perch on the steps. Two of the team members decided to disobey in order to improve the plan. They broke off early, walking toward the young man and standing directly in front of the church, staring at the front doors. One lingered behind those two as though waiting for something more to begin. The other three of us walked toward the nearest corner and then looked around in despair, trying to plan our escape despite rampant road construction that seemed to be taking over the city.

The plan worked. Our little friend was torn. What did he do? Did he stay to watch the three lingering in front of the church, or did he follow the other three around the side? What, oh what, should he do as these juveniles terrorized the sidewalks surrounding the (his) church? Getting a good laugh out of the whole ordeal, we continued on our way, wandering aimlessly.

A block or two later, it dawned on me that there was a reason for my rage. I know I always sigh and start writing to-do lists when my professors rant about white privilege, but it does exist. I am not accustomed to being viewed suspiciously. I am not accustomed to being followed or watched. And honestly, it pissed me off. Were I born into a different race, culture, or socioeconomic class, I might expect such treatment. Sad lesson to learn, but not as sad as realizing that the only way to achieve my dream of living in the desert and owning a lake house is to sell my soul to the money-grubbing leeches of corporate America.

STORY NUMERO DOS: ASPHIXIATED INFANTS

While in Washington, D.C., some of us decided to go to the Holocaust Memorial Museum. (A most worthwhile venture, for those of you who have not yet been there. Seriously, take a day and just go wander. It is well worth your time.) Though the Museum is free, you must obtain tickets to enter. Mini and I woke around five in the morning and left the hotel ridiculously early to go wait in line for tickets. The rest of our group joined us later.

While waiting in line, we saw lots of joggers, pet owners, and families. Multiple families had what I like to call “baby in a bag.” It wasn’t really a bag, per se. It was more of a plastic covering for the stroller. Think, people. Stroller with baby. Covered in plastic. Baby. Plastic covering. Baby covered in plastic.

!?!?!?!

Who the hell came up with this idea? Did they not read the warning labels on all those plastic bags? They all say to keep them out of reach of children. They all tell you that kids can suffocate on the damn things. And now, somehow, there is a marketable product that encloses babies in plastic?!

Oh. . . for the love of marketing, come on.

STORY THREE: SADDENING REALITY

Let’s get serious for a moment. (Or, as Al Gore would say, “Let’s get serial.”)

We went to dinner in D.C., at a shopping center just a few hundred feet from our hotel. The restaurant was owned by Ted Bundy, but that’s a whole different issue. Upon exiting the fine dining establishment, we noticed three young children sitting by the drive out of the parking lot.
The eldest appeared to be no more than ten years old, probably closer to eight. The other two boys looked to be between two and three years old. They were quiet, well-behaved, and just sitting there.

At first, we were perplexed. Did someone leave their children while fetching the car? Did someone leave their children while getting Starbucks or Coldstone? Who would leave their children alone in Washington, D.C.?

As we walked away, the children continued to sit alone. They were silent. They were still. They just sat there.

I couldn’t handle it. I couldn’t stand the idea that they had been abandoned. So Mini and I doubled back and sat down on a bench to observe. I don’t really know what we planned to do, but I wanted to see whether someone would return for the boys.

Less than ten minutes later, the eldest boy stood up and took the other two by the hands and started walking away from us, toward the Metro station. Was he supposed to meet a parent in the parking lot across the street? Had he been instructed to change locations if he felt he was being watched? What was going on?

Mini and I followed. I still don’t know what we planned to do, but we were following nonetheless. Before we caught up, the three little boys were off and on their way into the Metro station. Luckily, there happened to be two police cruisers in the parking lot for the Metro. They were just sitting there, chatting from window to window. We walked up, informed the officers of the situation, and stood back to see what might occur.

The officers pulled out and drove up to the Metro station, hopping out of their cruisers and walking in. We waited on the sidewalk, and a moment later the officers emerged with the boys. They were talking to the oldest boy when we decided to walk back to the hotel.

Now, it would have been easy to say, “We just saved those kids!” We could have basked in the glow of a good deed accomplished. But what had we done?

What if a parent or parents were going to come back for the boys, but would now be scared off by the presence of the police? What if the boys would be split up among foster homes? Someone might easily embrace the cute little ones, but say that the other was too old. He was obviously accustomed to watching out for them, and I couldn’t imagine the psychological damage that would be done if they were separated from him. It would be akin to taking a single father’s children away.

I know nothing of the Child Protective Services in Washington, D.C. They could be terrible. Those kids could be in for the experience of their lives. And we could have delivered them to it. But what was the alternative? We’ll never know.

No good deed is simply good. No act is without consequences. And no choice is ever cut and dry. Especially when that decision has the potential to change three young lives.
Where the fuck were the parents? How long had those kids been on their own?

What the hell is wrong with people such that those children were left alone, at night, on the streets of Washington, D.C.?

We live in a sad world.

And the saddening reality is that we may never change that fact.