I have been doing detached youth work on the Upper Shankill on Thursday nights. The idea behind it is that though there are loads of drop-in centers around the neighborhood, there are still kids that do not go in and prefer to hang out in parks, drink vodka and use ceramic lawn gnomes as hash pipes (seriously). Unfortunately, due to the miserable weather, most kids will seek warmer debaucherous headquarters unbeknownst to the Belfast Educadion and Library Board. Most nights I am paired with another youth worker who knows the area well and we walk around the housing estates talking to the kids we see, but it rarely amounts to much. It has been a good way to familiarize myself with the labyrinthine urban development of sectarian neighborhoods, but I have met only a handful of kids this way.

Last Thursday we stopped by a drop-in center where a group of young people were meeting. The role of these programs is to meet a group / gang of friends on the street in their environment and build up a foundation of trust and eventually allow them to use facilities at nearby youth center. There they would work on any number of projects including short films, songs or participating in learning about diversity. If they complete a certain amount of group work they can go on "residentials" which is a fun trip to a football match in England, Eurodisney, a wilderness survival weekend or anything really. The group I happened upon were talking about the similarities between Northern Ireland paramilitaries and American gang culture. They were doing this study to parallel another group in inner city Providence, RI doing the same thing. Besides keeping a correspondence and sharing persepective, both groups would be privileged to share speakers. Ex-paramilitary leaders would visit and chat with the kids in Providence and ex-gang members were to visit Belfast. There is even a long term plan for the two groups of young people to meet.

The kids and I got along famously as I shared with them everything I know about American gangs (mostly from HBO's The Wire and Dangerous Minds). They even started sharing with me videos on their mobile phones, stuff they picked up from YouTube and Bluetoothed among their friends. One particularly haunting clip was of The West Circular riots three years ago. This was during marching season where Catholic neighborhood was sandwiched between two Prostestant housing estates and wanted to march straight through. This was an anticipated conflict with British reserves called in to peace keep. The added security and the mounting agitation caused an inevitable conflabration the beginning of which was documented in the video I saw.

I was thinking about this later when I joined up with Ruthie at McHughs (our local pub) and as I leaned heavily against the bar I began to think about how many stories I have that start with "I was slumped over a barstool in america..." and we had a laugh. I spent some time this weekend writing the inexplicable contrast and kinship my heart has for this city. I could never equate my wounds with their's, but somehow I understand parts of myself, the perspective I could never get otherwise, when I am presented with the reality in this country's bravado, its vulnerability.

Here is the poem, for better or worse.

the good old days!

i was slumped over a bar stool in america
long before i saw the west circular riots.
the grainy footage was
the size of a postage stamp
on a mobile phone.

everyone was looking on in daylight.
the blowtorch to the lamppost was a spectacle
received with the affection of birthday candles
fiercely blown out.

the sparkshower inspired goodnatured applause
from the surrounding crowds

followed by offscreen gunshots
and the shooter appearing,
the gathering parted allowing
his strange dance passage where
he continued to jerk and twitch.

his bodys every joint buckled
at the black revolvers report in the sky.

i saw this long after slumping over barstools in america
and all the video things happened before I began.

the council has fixed the concrete in the estate.
it was bandaged quickly.

there is no noticeable seam or suture,
but the street carries its new tissue
awkwardly, embarrassed;

a nearly identical pet to replace
the departed beloved
and yet, still
guardian and child seem at ease
with an eleven year old goldfish
or a nine year old bullfrog.

an interface enclave seems a fitting
name
but to the mobile phone
it was
the good old days

exclamation point.