My Stupidity Made a Difference

Obviously I'm doing census work for the cold hard cash, but I also managed to accomplish something meaningful through sheer stupidity, which has made the whole endeavor worthwhile and even memorable. I'll start by saying that enumerating has revealed to me the depths of the diversity of my neighborhood.

On the very first day we were sent out as trainees with our shiny new binders and pencils, I screwed up. Despite years of living here, I went to an East Clay address when I should have gone to West Clay. I knocked on the door, introduced myself and asked the man to confirm the address; instead he corrected me, explaining that the house number was right but that I was at East Clay Street.

I apologized and went to leave, but he insisted I stay. I explained that someone else would come by to count him, but that he wasn't on my list. Newbie that I was, I was determined to follow the rules. "No, no," he insisted. "I didn't get a census form. I've never gotten a census form. You're here now and what if no one else comes? I want to be counted. Please come in."

Once inside, he explained that he didn't want to rely on someone else showing up since no one ever had. Being a freshly-minted, dewy-eyed enumerator, I felt like the right thing to do was to fill out a form for this man, despite him not being a person I was supposed to count.

When we got to the race portion of the form, it all became clear. He was Native American, of the Holiwahali-Sponia tribe and he said his parents had never been counted, nor had his grandparents. "When I looked up records, there's no trace of my family because they were never counted," he said. "I want my great- grandchildren to be able to find out about me."

Wow, was I glad I'd come in and done the wrong thing. The man was absolutely right; he should be counted. And the irony was that once I had the information, I took it to the person who had his block and indeed, his address was not listed. Apparently because he lives over a business, no one had ever known about the apartment and put it on a census list. If not for my faux pas, he would have remained invisible.

In the weeks since, I have enumerated far more people of Native American descent than I had any idea lived in J-Ward. Happily in the 'hood are Cherokee, Pamunkey, Lakota, Umpqua and even Pomo-Mewak, a Mexican tribe, and all now denoted as such on their census forms. And that's just the people I personally counted.

A future generation will be able to do genealogical research about this man because of me. I'm incredibly proud of the results of my incompetence.

No One Wants Their Sex Questioned

They joy of working the census these past two weeks has been spending hours walking around the Ward, which is establishing me as a daily presence to VDOT workers, mailmen and assorted business owners, many of whom greet me like an old friend now.

Since I don't have problems talking to strangers (as one of my coworkers told me he did today; yeesh, bad job choice, buddy), it's not a particularly tough job and often results in some great exchanges in the 'hood.

We're required to ask certain questions of people when we enumerate them and you can imagine how some people react when you ask the obvious.

We're supposed to say, "Are you male or female?" which I usually paraphrase so as not to appear moronic.

Today a woman responded with, "Do you see ANY part of me that doesn't look like a woman's body?"

I think she thought I was challenging her femininity (or maybe she was just proud of the work she'd had done; who knows?), when really I was just talking government-speak.

For the record, I told her no.

Walking up Second Street, a group of three young guys were lounging outside a barber shop.

One told me that I was too young to be wearing such a cute flowered skirt to work in.

"For all you know, I'm old enough to be your mother, " I teased him and we exchanged ages.

"You could be my girlfriend definitely, but not my mother!" one said.

"Don't you guys have hair to cut?" I responded and took my flowered skirt on its way.

Passing the never-ending road repair work on Brook Road, one of the guys told me it was taking me as long to count people as it was taking them to fix the road.

Of course, there's ten of them to one of me, but either way, you're talking about your tax dollars at work, if you know what I mean.

Heading home down Marshall, I got my best comment of the day in front of Gallery 5 when a guy gave me a big smile and said, "You got a jazzy walk!"

Could there be a better way to walk the "Harlem of the South" than in a jazzy manner?

Didn't think so.

An Abundance of Exes

I'm back in training for another Census Bureau project and that means a whole new crop of jobless people and colorful stories from the field. It's even better this time because everyone in the group is from Jackson Ward or Monroe Ward, the areas we'll soon be counting. I've already met a neighbor from only a few houses down the block and another who lives just around the corner. Get paid! Make friends!

Like any work-related training class or seminar, they begin by making you stand up to introduce yourself and tell the group why you're there. Since I'd done this just a couple of months ago, I knew better than to say "for the money" but twelve of the other fourteen people said that that was their only reason for taking this job. They just don't realize yet what a fascinating slice of humanity you get to meet working for the Census, and that's before you even hit the streets to count.

One interesting and talkative girl who was 45 minutes late to class put it best. "I'm here because they pay way better than Lee's Chicken," she offered. "And no grease!" Well, I can certainly see where that would be motivating.

Later on in the morning, our trainer put up a big map of the area we'll be enumerating and it stretches from Goshen in Carver down to 8th and Bank, an area I know pretty well. She told us to familiarize ourselves with the area, prompting a few questions about the specifics of our assignment ("You're not sending us to the projects, are you?" one guy asked nervously. No, they're not.).

The Lee's Chicken girl girl raised her hand and disdainfully asked, "We gotta go to Jackson Ward to do this?" immediately making me bristle at the tone she used for my beloved neighborhood. Feeling my inner J-Ward girl rising from within, I shot right back at her. "You got a problem with Jackson Ward or what?"

Well, she hemmed and hawed and finally got it out. "Well, um, it's, you know, it's just I got an ex-boyfriend in Jackson Ward!"

Was that all it was? Really? "Don't worry," I reassured her. "I've got an ex-boyfriend in Jackson Ward, too. We'll figure it out."

From behind me, the trainer interjected, "I got an ex-boyfriend in Jackson Ward myself. Live long enough and you'll have plentyof ex-boyfriends in Jackson Ward."

With that kind of wisdom, is it any wonder that she's the trainer? And just so that you know, the Lee's girl never came back after the first day. I'm thinking that must have been one bad breakup.

Northside Noshing

What happens when two grammarians eat lunch together at Northside Grill?

They really do discuss split infinitives and the misuse of adjectives as adverbs.

What happens when two oldest children eat there? They discuss how vastly different their personalities are from their younger siblings.

What happens when two...never mind.

I've discovered a Census buddy who, because he has a wife who does the same, appreciates my smart mouth.

Who continues to dish it out because inevitably I dish it back.

In between counting dorm residents at VUU today, we slipped out to Northside Grill, just down Brook Road, for lunch.

He'd never been, but after first suggesting Great Wraps, I had to let him in on a little secret about myself; I don't eat at chain restaurants.

So I suggested a local alternative and we were off in my pollen-covered car.

My spinach salad was made better with the addition of goat cheese and cucumbers in addition to the standard hard-cooked egg and bacon.

He got a club sandwich which impressed him so much that he started hurling superlatives.

"I know it's hard to mess up a club sandwich, but this is the best one I've ever had." High praise from a new customer.

He told me that the only thing his wife misses about being married is the ability to flirt.

He said she's one of those women who can talk to strangers and come away fifteen minute later knowing their life story.

The same has been said about me on far too many occasions.

So, let's see, I know his religion, his church-going choice (not the same), his former weight and current weight, his childhood nerd habits, his music taste (duh), his birth order, his health issues and his cousin's sexual preferences.

And obviously, I discerned his taste in women, whether as friends, co-workers or partners: smart, sassy and quick with a quip.

Now that I think about it, that sounds like the ideal guy, too...as long as they're not married.

My First Time in City Jail

And you should see the bruise I have to show for it.

It's front and center on my right thigh, about the size of an egg with a purple outside and two yellow splotches inside.

It was a raised knot of a bruise for the first couple of days, but now it just hurts to roll over on it in bed, if that gives you any idea.

And all because I was upholding the Constitution.

Like thousands of other unemployed citizens, I'm doing work for the Census Bureau right now, which has not involved going house to house.

Instead, my crew and I are assigned to group locations, like nursing homes, dorms, shelters and, yes, the City Jail.

I thought I'd be in the majority when I blithely made the comment going through security that it was my first time in jail.

Either people had been there to help out a "friend" or they'd been on some wholesome sponsored tour (Girl Scout, school, Cub Scout) when they were younger.

Yet again, my life experience put me in the minority; luckily I'm used to that.

After two days spent at the jail transcribing information about inmates onto Census forms, all I can say is, parents, please think twice before naming your newborn.

What chance does a child have when his given name is Hitler? Or Demon? Or even Lovely?

I made a comment about poor name choices to the Lt. Colonel who was my contact person at the jail and he told me about an inmate they'd had named Marijuana.

"I started to ask if he had brothers named Cocaine and Heroin, but I honestly didn't want to know," he said in a resigned voice.

The process of cataloguing almost 1500 inmates (in, it should be noted, a facility meant to hold 800) was tedious but not particularly painful until the very end.

As I was gathering up all the data we had collected, I made a sudden move to grab a sliding pile of papers.

Immediately, my thigh collided with the keyboard tray on the table at which I was working.

It was just a thin piece of metal projecting out a couple of inches, but I was in full-steam-ahead mode, eager to be finished and escape the basement of the City Jail.

I wish I had a juicier story to explain my jail bruise, but that's the best I've got.

I like to think that I took one for the Constitution, but really all I did was mess up my leg at the start of shorts season.

Let's hope it goes away quickly.