May
18, 2016. Flint sprawls both flat and undulating
across a crease on the web of the hand that is the mitt of Michigan. Neighborhoods on the west and north sides feature
streets that climb and wind, houses perched high above cracked, sloping sidewalks. Access to such houses requires negotiation of
steep driveways and extended flights of stairs leading up from the street. Summit
achieved, the view can’t be beaten even in the worst neighborhoods. For all the calamity Flint has endured, spring
through summer it’s a lush, leafy green city.
Down at street level however, gazing up thirty feet to the ramshackle
porch of a large, badly deteriorated house, the climb feels daunting. One’s sense of duty can waver. This is especially true near the end of a
long, hot day humping cases of water under similar conditions. I sit in the ERV this particular late afternoon
looking up at such a house. We’re down
to twelve cases of water. This could be
our last stop. The ancient concrete
stairs ascend in three flights ending at a broad set of rotting wood plank steps
leading to a wide covered porch in an advanced state of disrepair. A century of Michigan frost cycles have heaved
the concrete into unaligned fun house juxtaposition. A solemn girl of about seven answers the door. She stays fixed on us for the two or three
minutes it takes to explain our presence, then disappears into the dark recesses
within. Minutes go by. We hear the sounds of concerted movement, the
muffled don’t-bother-me-now voice of a woman, ganged pairs of footfalls. Five children ranging in approximate age from
six to twelve emerge from the shuttered home, all of them slight of build, kids
indoors on a beautiful spring afternoon. A middle child tells us they need ten cases,
goes back inside when we ask about replacement filter cartridges and a water
testing kit. Once need has been
established, we descend to the ERV and begin carrying cases two at a time. The same child, a spunky eight or nine, is already
at work choreographing a fire brigade of siblings ending on the lip of the
porch. She is quietly efficient and economical
in manner. The other kids follow her
directions without hesitation. They are
serious in intent, slender of stature. The
heavy cases make their no-nonsense way to the top. I take time to register each face in
turn. Such lovely children, each one a
gift of hope to us all. Watching them work
in concert, their unsullied goodness in service to unconscionable hubris and ignorance,
my heart swells and breaks. We wave our
goodbyes and I coax a silent prayer up those crazy stairs.
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