In the Ghetto

Whether it's being lulled to sleep by the soothing sound of gunshots outside your window, or witnessing a drug deal in the street by twilight, the ghetto has always held a special place in my heart. I spent an appreciable part of my mission living quite harmoniously in the ghettos of Houston. Sometimes, like when I am solicited by someone trying to sell me their food stamps in the grocery store, I feel as if I am taking a drive down memory lane...a drive in a black Cadillac complete with hydraulics and chrome plated spinner rims. For the last three months I lived just south of the WashU medical school campus. But sometimes I think I might as well have been just south of Harlem. As I leave this place to start a new life in a fully air-conditioned apartment sans plumbing leaks of any kind, I pause to reflect on the experiences that have molded me...and some that have just left mold...in the ghetto.

Eating in the ghetto
When you don't have a dining room or even dining room furniture or even furniture, you find ways to improvise. For months my roommate and I took turns eating off the box our microwave came in. We propped it up on its end, opened the flaps for stabilization, and...voila! A personal dining room table. After a while, I became quite attached to the makeshift table. So much so that when my roommate's girlfriend bought us an end table to replace the sturdy cardboard box, it was several weeks before I could bring myself to stuff the box in the closet. It felt like I was stuffing my firstborn child in the closet.

Because of our dregs-of-society living conditions, I was often too embarrassed to have the Elders over for dinner; however, I did occasionally invite them when a particular sister in our ward would bring the dinner calendar into the Elders quorum. "Let's feed our guys," she would say, with all the passion of a Mormon mom bereft of her own missionary son who was in the field. How could I refuse?

Of course it would not befit an Ambassador of the Gospel of Jesus Christ to eat off a cardboard box, so I had them eat off our desk chairs instead. One particular Elder, who apparently was unfamiliar with the ghetto ways of life, picked up the spoon I had carefully laid out for him on his imitation leather desk chair, and examined it closely. The spoon was bent slightly above the handle about 20 degrees to the right. "Is this a left-handed spoon?" The Elder asked innocently. While I knew that spoons are in fact achiral objects, not having a particular handedness, I wasn't interested in discounting what the poor Elder probably considered to be an astute observation.

"Yes, Elder. That is indeed a left-handed spoon. Would you prefer a right-handed one?" I asked obsequiously.

"Why, yes. Thank you," the Elder politely responded. Being the accommodating host that I am, I went into the kitchen and opened our silverware drawer. I was met with a host of crooked spoons of both the left and right-hand varieties that had likely either sustained damage during an intense round of the popular card game, or had suffered at the hands of a negligent garbage disposal runner. I selected a right-handed spoon from the cutlery graveyard and returned to the living room.

"Here you are," I said handing the Elder the deformed eating utensil. "A nice right-handed spoon." The Elder gratefully acknowledged receipt of the spoon and happily ate his dinner.

Convenience Store Survival in the Ghetto
I have only ever been afraid for my life twice. Once was when I slept in a tent adjacent to Jordan Bluth's tent at scout camp. The kid snored like you would not believe. I thought a bear, or perhaps a bear with laryngitis wielding a chainsaw, had wandered into our camp and I was to be its next victim. The second time I confronted death was when as a missionary I entered a convenience store for what I thought would be a routine candy aisle perusal and bathroom break. Little did I know.

My companion and I were riding our bikes to our next appointment when we made an emergency stop at a convenience store in a bad part of town. Such stops were not uncommon as my companion suffered from digestive problems that were the result of some undercooked meat he had been served a couple of weeks previous. While my companion occupied the bathroom, I headed for the candy aisle which I consider to be a microcosm of the celestial kingdom.

I was contemplating whether Abraham, Isaac and Jacob would prefer a Butterfinger or a Snickers bar when suddenly the doors of the convenience door were forced open and I heard a menacing male voice yell, "This is a stick up! Everyone get your faces on the ground!" I thought I might have the answer to my question soon enough. A giant pillar obstructed my view of the front of the store, so I couldn't see the man who was making the threats. I had no reason to believe, however, that the man didn't mean business. I decided that I should follow his instructions lest I end up in the big candy aisle in the sky sooner than expected.

I had one hand on the floor when the man came around the corner and we made eye contact. He and his friend were laughing. There was no gun. It was all a joke. They continued to the back of the store, grabbed enough beer to intoxicate a small city, paid for their drinks, and left the store. I got up off the floor and leaned my shaking body against the wall. It took me a few minutes before I could steady my breathing and heart rate. My companion and I would live to see another dinner appointment. My companion! I made it to the bathroom just in time to see him cautiously peeking out the door. Upon hearing the threats he interrupted his business and stood ready to defend himself in his stall. Not being able to see the perpetrators, he couldn't know that the entire thing was staged. Relieved to hear that we were not in any danger, he returned to finish relieving himself.

Household Repairs in the Ghetto
There are certain places where you can expect to be rained on frequently. Seattle is one such place. There are certain places where you don't expect to be rained on frequently. Your bathroom is one such place. After spending a few days in our new apartment, my roommate and I discovered that our bathroom had a distinct weather pattern allegedly due to a leak in the plumbing upstairs. When we called our landlord to complain, he cleverly suggested the following solution: "Why don't you get an old towel and place it on the floor to stop the deluge from spreading into other areas of the apartment?" Of course! A towel! Why didn't I think of that? Brilliant.

The King in the Ghetto
Elvis Presley sang a song entitled "In the Ghetto" to which I would add the following verses:

In the bathroom
Where a do-rag's not only part of my threads
But something that'll keep the rain off my head
In the ghetto

Going shopping
You'll surely find a bargain in the corner store
But you might find more than you bargained for
In the ghetto

On a microwave box
We eat our dinner with a left-handed spoon
And we'll all be praying to get out real soon
Of the ghetto