December 2007 Issue by Urbanite LLC

B A L T I M O R E ’ S

C U R I O U S

“Good deeds done dirt cheap is charity. What we need is good deeds done smart.”

—Robert Egger, co-founder of the National Nonprofit Congress

Exclusive excerpt: Manil Suri’s new novel Rumble in the woods: Mount Washington’s bike path standoff Page turner: Building a better library

december 2007 issue no. 42

F O R

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f e a t u r e s december 2007 issue no. 42

keynote: will work for change interview by michael anft

twenty years ago, robert egger made a simple observation. instead of buying food to feed the homeless, we should make the most of what restaurants throw away. now, the punk-rock-loving founder of d.c. central kitchen wants to change the entire modus operandi of charity in america.

the building block by jim duffy

does being a good neighbor do any lasting good? three years after leaving baltimore, a writer returns to reflect on how his efforts to help his block changed more than just one city street.

the philanthropistâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s toolkit by lionel foster

once upon a time, philanthropy was a late-life pursuit of the white, rich, and male. today, new tools and resources can make carnegies and rockefellers out of the rest of us.

this month online at www.urbanitebaltimore.com: a conversation with novelist manil suri, author of the age of shiva photo gallery: inside the enchanted forest video: mondawmin mallâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s santa claus

on the cover: robert egger, photographed by marshall clarke w w w. u r b a n i t e b a l t i m o re . c o m d e c e m b e r 0 7

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departments december 2007 issue no. 42

what you’re saying

what you’re seeing

what you’re writing

corkboard

have you heard

baltimore observed

sage advice

it’s a bird

white lies: ask me no questions, working for the man, and sugarfree secrets

this month: holly, trains, and handel

a more enlightened christmas. plus: clay, lingerie, and that little black dress

disputed ground

mount washington’s wilderness campaign by charles cohen

the baltimore split when the work/life balance involves train rides and frequent flier miles by martin l. johnson

who loves the sun? basking in victory at the 2007 solar decathlon competition by sharon tregaskis

storybook ending the death and rebirth of the enchanted forest by marianne amoss

fiction

space: open book

an excerpt from manil suri’s new novel, the age of shiva

the pratt library replaces a bunker with color, light, and glass by mike dominelli

food: the apprentices a restaurant with a mission to help turn around troubled lives by mary k. zajac

reviewed: joung kak and cinghiale

89 76

recommended border crossings. plus: painted prayers, black mirrors, and baltimore: the opera

105

resources

110

eye to eye

further reading on solar homes, bike paths, and roadside attractions

urbanite creative director alex castro on photographer laura burns

w w w. u r b a n i t e b a l t i m o re . c o m d e c e m b e r 0 7

urbanite december 07

Issue 42 December 2007 Publisher Tracy Ward Durkin Tracy@urbanitebaltimore.com Creative Director Alex Castro General Manager Jean Meconi Jean@urbanitebaltimore.com Executive Editor David Dudley David@urbanitebaltimore.com Managing Editor Marianne Amoss Marianne@urbanitebaltimore.com Copy Editor Angela Davids Editorial Assistant Lionel Foster Lionel@urbanitebaltimore.com Contributing Editors Karen Houppert, Susan McCallum-Smith Editorial Intern Harrison Brazier Design/Production Manager Lisa Macfarlane Lisa@urbanitebaltimore.com Traffic/Production Coordinator Bellee Gossett Bellee@urbanitebaltimore.com Designer Jason Okutake Staff Photographers La Kaye Mbah, Jason Okutake Production Interns April Osmanof, Stephanie Spinks Web Coordinator/Videographer Chris Rebbert Senior Account Executives Janet Brown Janet@urbanitebaltimore.com Susan R. Levy Susan@urbanitebaltimore.com Marcella Rosati Marcella@urbanitebaltimore.com Account Executives Michele Holcombe Michele@urbanitebaltimore.com Bill Sierra Bill@urbanitebaltimore.com Maureen Wilson Maureen@urbanitebaltimore.com Sales/Accounting Assistant Iris Goldstein Iris@urbanitebaltimore.com Marketing Kathleen Dragovich Kathleen@urbanitebaltimore.com Marketing/Administrative Assistant La Kaye Mbah Administrative Assistant Lindsay Hanson Founder Laurel Harris Durenberger Advertising/Editorial/Business Offices P.O. Box 50158, Baltimore, MD 21211 Phone: 410-243-2050; Fax: 410-243-2115 www.urbanitebaltimore.com Editorial inquiries: Send queries to editor@urbanitebaltimore.com (no phone calls, please). The magazine is not responsible for unsolicited manuscripts or artwork. Urbanite does not necessarily support the opinions of its authors. To subscribe or obtain assistance with a current subscription, call 410-243-2050. Subscription price: $18 per year. Reproduction in whole or in part without written permission by Urbanite is prohibited. Copyright 2007, Urbanite LLC. All rights reserved. Urbanite (ISSN 1556-8105) is a free publication distributed widely in the Baltimore metropolitan area. If you know of a location that urbanites frequent and would recommend placing the magazine there, please contact us at 410243-2050. Postmaster: Send address changes to Urbanite Subscriptions, P.O. Box 50158, Baltimore, MD 21211.

urbanite december 07

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contributors

Linda Connor For the past forty years, photographer Linda Connor has been living in the Bay Area, teaching at the San Francisco Art Institute, and traveling extensively to capture that which is indescribable in words. Her photographs, created with a large format view camera, contemplate the relationship of the sacred to the natural world and reflect her interest in how diverse cultures manifest the holy. Chronicle Books will publish a monograph of her work next year. Her photograph Shirt, Banares, India 1979 accompanies the excerpt from Manil Suri’s The Age of Shiva on page 71.

Charles Cohen Charles Cohen tries to earn his living writing articles and making documentaries on everything from Memorial Stadium to a day in the life of a New York street musician. His articles have appeared in the New York Times and the Washington Post. In 2000, Cohen coauthored Charmed Life, a collection of offbeat Baltimore stories written by Cohen, Tom Chalkley, and Brennen Jensen for the City Paper column of the same name. A Mount Washington native, Cohen is an avid cyclist and woodland trespasser; his article on the debate over a proposed bike path in Mount Washington appears on page 41. He now lives with his wife and two daughters in Fells Point.

Jim Duffy Jim Duffy is a freelance writer based in Cambridge, Maryland. A native of Chicago, he moved to Maryland in 1990. For many years, as residents of Northeast Baltimore, he and his wife, Jill Jasuta, were active in the nonprofit Belair-Edison Neighborhood, Inc.’s Healthy Neighborhoods program. His essay about his time well spent in that neighborhood appears on page 58. Today, Duffy serves on the board of directors of the nonprofit Cambridge Main Street. He is also active in the Choptank Region Heritage Network, a grassroots civic group dedicated to advancing the study and preservation of the history of the Underground Railroad on the Eastern Shore.

Stephanie Spinks Production intern Stephanie Spinks may be relatively new to the state of Maryland, but she’ll be the first to confess her newfound affection for Charm City. Originally from Westford, Massachusetts, Spinks left home to study illustration at the Maryland Institute College of Art, where she is now in her final year. She lives in Bolton Hill with her cat, Nemo, whom she calls “the perfect roommate.”

editor’s note

A pair of neuroscientists at the National Institutes of Health in Bethesda

made headlines recently when they released the results of brain imaging research that offered a neural explanation for some ancient moral bromides: Doing good deeds does indeed make you feel good. Drs. Jordan Grafman and Jorge Moll used magnetic resonance imaging to watch the brains of volunteers as they were asked to imagine scenarios involving donating money to charity. As reported in their 2006 paper published in the Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences, they found that “more anterior sectors of the prefrontal cortex are distinctively recruited when altruistic choices prevail over selfish material interests.” Translation: Acts of generosity tweaked the brain’s pleasure center, the deep reptilian part that typically responds to such primal pursuits as donuts and sex. In other words, we are wired for decency, designed to compulsively seek and reap the “neural rewards” brought on by acts of not-so-random kindness toward our fellow humans. This insight has been greeted with some hand-wringing from those who prefer to ascribe nonbiological causation to morality; others argue that the study subjects were merely responding to a learned behavior, having been taught to pleasurably process the Golden Rule as a principle of proper living. Evolutionary biologists are also hotly pursuing this question, joining philosophers and theologians in the race to understand how cruel nature let our ancestors pass on the ability to put the interests of others ahead of their own. It’s an issue of some interest to economists, who are always trying to figure out how to encourage people to spend more money, and also to the nonprofit sector (ditto, especially this time of year). As Lionel Foster notes in “The Philanthropist’s Toolkit” (p. 66), his resource guide to how to leverage the most local impact from your seasonal charitable impulses, Americans are the world leaders in personal philanthropy—a generosity that has somehow not translated into actual solutions for the social woes our way of life has spawned. In this month’s “Keynote” interview (“Will Work for Change,” p. 54), nonprofit reformer Robert Egger offers his outspoken opinion on why this is, and how he wants to reinvent American philanthropy from the ground up. Finally, freelance writer Jim Duffy takes a personal look at the risks and rewards of do-goodering with a forensic review of the neighborhood stabilization efforts he and his wife, Jill, tackled in their Belair-Edison neighborhood (“The Building Block,” p. 58). Jim is a friend and former colleague, and his essay represents not only a dispatch from the frontiers of altruism but the answer to a question that many of his friends and acquaintances shared during the years that his life was consumed by sundry community improvement projects: Why are you doing all this? It turns out that Jim was not, in fact, built of saintlier stock than the rest of us. He just liked this stuff. He enjoyed the neural pleasures of serving neighbor and neighborhood as deeply as he enjoyed drinking beer, yelling himself hoarse at Ravens games, and his other, less selfless pastimes. And, if the scientists are correct—and if we made the effort to find out—you and I might find that we are similarly wired. Although actual human behavior seems to offer an abundance of evidence to the contrary, it’s reassuring to know that at least there is some brain chemistry on our side in the struggle to be better citizens. We need all the help we can get. —David Dudley

How do you remember? Coming Next Month: Beginnings, endings, and other rites of passage.

www.urbanitebaltimore.com

F O R

B A LT I M O R E ’ S

C U R I O U S

w w w. u r b a n i t e b a l t i m o re . c o m d e c e m b e r 0 7

Angela Lynn. Comfort, Elegance & Simplicity... words that we live by in our home furnishings, jewelry, gifts and accessories boutique. 840 W. 36th Street • 410-235-4446

Grill Art Cafe. Brunch * Lunch * Dinner * Roasted Garlic Soup * Spicy Thai Shrimp * Wild Mushroom Ravioli * Seared Tuna * Kobe Steak * Chicken Satay * Mussels * B.B.Q. Chicken Pizza * Roast Veggie Salad * Lamb Kabobs * Casual * B.Y.O.B. 1011 W. 36th Street • 410-366-2005

Form Boutique.

Modern clothing and accessories for women. You will find unique pieces that have an edgy sophistication from only the best labels. 1115 West 36th Street • 410-889-3116 • formtheboutique.com

Mud and Metal. Hand made functional art created by artists to be used and loved! Ceramics, metal, jewelry, glass, fiber, paper. Enjoy! Art to live with! Open Mon - Wed 10am - 6pm, Thurs - Sat 10am - 7 pm, Sun 10am - 5pm 1121 W. 36th Street • 410-467-8698 • www.mudandmetal.com

The Dogwood Restaurant. Baltimore Magazine’s “Best New Restaurant” Naturally elegant, seasonal creations featuring ingredients from local farms. Free off-street parking behind the restaurant. 911W. 36th Street • 410-889-0952 • www.thedogwood.net

Golden West Cafe. “Green chile, green chile, green chile! A million New Mexicans can’t be wrong.” Open Wed.-Mon. 9am-10pm, Bar open till midnight. Closed Tuesdays. 1105 W. 36th Street • 410 889-8891

Red Tree. Home furnishings and artistic goods from around the world and around the corner. From furniture to jewelry, wall art to handbags, you’ll find a variety of creatively designed goods.

921 W. 36th Street • 410-366-3456 • www.redtreebaltimore.com

Eye Candy Opticianry. Decorate your face - dress your eyes in style! Pick

from a carefully chosen selection of unique eye glass frames from Europe: France, Belgium, Italy & England as well as frames made in the USA. All that and more! 900 W. 36th Street • 410-889-0607

Milagro -A Global Boutique.

Clothing, jewelry, accessories for you. World folkart, pottery and mirrors for your home. Featuring a handpicked selection of Holiday gifts from across land and sea. 1005 West 36th Street • 410-235-3800

Earth Alley. Looking for unique one-of-a-kind gifts? Earth Alley features a world of eco-friendly & fair-trade personal and home accessories. We are just up from the ‘Ave’. 3602 Elm Avenue • 410-366-2110 • www.earthalley.com

Ma Petite Shoe .

Shoes & Chocolate! A wide assortment of exotic chocolates and shoes from the world’s wildest designers. Handcrafted slippers, luxurious socks, scarves and bags. Open 7 days a week. 832 West 36th Street • 410-235-3442 • www.mapetiteshoe.com

Paradiso. Antique to Modern Home Decor. Accent on exceptional furniture, lighting, fine craft, outsider art, jewelry and fabulous gifts for the Holidays. An outstanding destination! “ Open Fri-Sat 11-6, Sun 11-4. Call for holiday hours.” 1015 W. 36th Street • 410-243-1317 • info@paradisohampden.com

Hometown Girl.

Celebrating Baltimore urban life for twenty-six years! Browse our wonderful selection of Baltimore books, art, apparel and foods...Select a nostalgic toy from our collection of all things fun and whimsical...Enjoy hand-dipped ice cream treats and espresso drinks in our “Parlor of Sweets!” Saturdays in December, meet authors and artists at our book signing. 1001 W. 36th Street at Roland Ave.• 410-662-GIFT • www.celebratebaltimore.com

In Watermelon Sugar. Specializing in unique products for your

home. Bath and body. Scents for every palette. Colorful aprons, frames, furniture, cards and more. 3555 Chestnut Ave • 410-662-9090

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From Chakras to Shamans, Aromatherapy to Zen, Bodywork to Buddhism—gifts, books, music and over 40 events a month for your mind, body and spirit. See our classes and workshops at www.breathebooks.com. Open Mon-Sat 11-7; Sun 12-5. Call 410-235-READ or email oracle@breathebooks.com for more information. 810 W. 36th Street • 410-235-READ

doubledutch boutique.

Showcasing both emerging and established labels, doubledutch caters to the women who can mix indie, vintage and designer clothing to create their own look. For this holiday season we have expanded our inspired collection of clothing, jewelry and other darling notions. Although a boutique in name, we strive to keep creative charm and individual style within everyone’s means. 3616 Falls Road • 410-554-0055 • www.doubledutchboutique.com

Sugar. The sex toy store you’ve been waiting for! Where sex is celebrated and everyone is welcome. We are near the corner of 36th and Roland. The entrance is in the parking lot off Roland, under Sprout. Look for the red awning. 927 W. 36th Street • 410-467-2632 • www.sugartheshop.com

Oakenshawe.

Baltimore’s most unique store for 20th Century Modern Design and Decorative Furnishings, showcasing handpicked furniture, lighting and art that reflect the rare and unusual as well as time-tested icons of design. 1021 W. 36th Street • 410-889-2279 • www.oakenshawe1021.com

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So enjoyable. Selection that celebrates your individuality. Design and sales professionals that achieve your vision. Be careful, you just might find yourself getting carried away. Floors Etc., a flooring experience that is quite simply — beautiful.

More selection. More attention. More precision. For more than 100 years. 1110 Reisterstown Road, Baltimore, MD 21208 • 410-484-4123 • www.floors-etc.com

urbanite december 07

what you’re saying

Growing Concern

photo by Jason Okutake

Thank you for “Mr. Mencken’s Neighborhood” (November), which brought back keen memories. In 1980, I was president of the Union Square Association and the neighborhood’s representative to the Mencken Centennial Planning Committee. For our contribution to the celebrations, neighbors decided to restore Henry Louis Mencken’s rear garden. We canvassed older residents as to how the yard looked. Mr. Bock, a gentleman in his 90s and a longtime resident of the 1500 block of Hollins Street, donated prunings from now-mature shrubs and trees that once were clippings shared with him by H.L. Mencken. About a month later, the University of Maryland at Baltimore (UMB), then the owner of 1524 Hollins Street, was contacted by NBC’s Today Show wanting to broadcast from the yard on Mencken’s one-hundredth birthday. Overnight, UMB “Dumpstered” our research and effort and re-landscaped the yard with all the sensitivity of a McDonald’s parking lot. In 1983, UMB swapped the Mencken House with the city for the Old Pine Street Station, adjacent to the school’s campus. An

Prep Rally I majored in elementary education at Coppin State College (class of ’79). In one of my courses, I wrote a paper comparing Baltimore City’s elementary grades curriculum statement with those of a half-dozen local private schools. Not once in the 368 pages of the former did the word “college” appear, whereas in each of the latter it was stated upfront, “We will prepare your child for college.” Despite Jon Schnur’s good intentions in advocating ”rigorous standards,” “quality assessments,” and “well-trained principals and teachers” (“The Principal Cause,” November), it is in the above divide where the educational problems in Baltimore’s public schools begin. The will to be educated is a cultural phenomenon and, as such, is closely related to social class. In the middle and upper classes, a child’s attending college is a given. Not to attend college is an exception to the rule and tantamount to a family embarrassment. Not so in disadvantaged-class families, where social pressures to attend college are hard to find. If Baltimore’s public schools are ever to significantly improve their graduation rates, the

system must continually and intensively propagandize the middle/upper-class value of getting into college. In fact, the school system must become a surrogate middle/upper-class parent. Middle/upper-class children start school with family-instilled incentives to tackle the hard work of graduating and going to college. In contrast, way too many disadvantaged-class kids enter with the goal of suffering through and trying not to drop out—hardly a sufficient incentive to do the hard work required to graduate with good grades, which the goal of getting into college would instill. —Herman M. Heyn, a native Baltimorean, has lived in Waverly for twenty-nine years and is treasurer of the Waverly Improvement Association. On clear nights, as “Baltimore’s Street Corner Astronomer,” he sets up his telescope in Harborplace and invites passersby to peek at the Moon and bright planets.

Have Faith I was disappointed when I read the “Why We Left/ Why We Stayed” articles (November) mainly be-

extensive and expensive renovation of the Mencken House was announced. By then, I had restored five houses in Union Square, so I had some knowledge of building costs. Although now I can’t recall how much was reportedly spent, I was amazed by both the bottom line and by the fact that, after a detailed inspection, I could see scant evidence of any work actually done. Neither the University of Maryland nor Baltimore City have been worthy stewards of the Mencken shrine. It is time to try control by a private nonprofit. I am keen on the concept of making the house a “living” literary workshop. At different times, both Dashiell Hammett and Russell Baker were neighbors, and the Poe House is not far away. The headquarters of the Maryland Library Association is in the 1400 block of Hollins Street. The seeds are there to grow a working memorial to Baltimore’s “Sage!” —Gary F. Suggars lived in Union Square from 1974 to 1985. He works in real estate, concentrating on historic properties.

cause it indicates that Baltimore City residents in general have a choice. Unfortunately, the majority of the families in Baltimore City Public Schools do not have the choices that the authors have. Most of these families are minorities from low-income to poor households stuck in a multi-generational cycle of poverty—unlike the authors of the dual columns. These families live in neighborhoods where public schools are not meeting NCLB standards, and IF there is a charter school, there is no guarantee it is a good one—or that the child will be able to get into it. For the most part, they are not able to move out to the county—and the PARENTS are not educated/ informed enough to figure out what they CAN do. One of the very few choices that these disadvantaged families do have are Catholic schools. Unfortunately, there are pre-conceived notions out there (one which some of this magazine’s writings help perpetuate) about the Catholic schools in Baltimore City. There are many that are much more affordable than one may think, and the vast majority of the population at most of the city Catholic schools is not Catholic. I am disappointed that Urbanite, for all the great stuff you’ve done, did not pick up on this angle—and w w w. u r b a n i t e b a l t i m o re . c o m d e c e m b e r 0 7

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update

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did not look deep enough into all the educational possibilities out there. This magazine could be a great platform to help solve problems, not just point them out. —Matt Anthony lives in Carroll County and works in Baltimore City. He is a former teacher.

Correction In the November “What You’re Seeing” department, we misidentified the owner of 1504 West Baltimore Street. The property is owned by the Harlem Park Revitalization Corporation.

until November 13. The BRTB planned to vote on the adoption of the revised document on November 29. Prior to that vote, a group of organizations and individuals submitted a joint statement to the BRTB, criticizing the board for creating a plan that didn’t adequately address the transit needs of the region and not incorporating citizens’ concerns into their revised draft, among other things. (The resolution can be read at www.bmoremobile.org). Sixteen organizations and twenty-four individuals cosigned the joint statement, including Citizens Planning and Housing Association and the Transit Riders Action Council of Metropolitan Baltimore. To follow the developments, go to www.baltometro.org.

Urbanite was one of 111 publications nominated by Utne Reader for its nineteenth annual Utne Independent Press Awards, which honor standout independent media. Urbanite was nominated in the category of Local/Regional Coverage. Winners will be announced in the January/February 2008 issue of Utne. The “Editor’s Note” in the September issue mentioned the Baltimore Regional Transportation Board’s Transportation Outlook 2035, which lists projects for several jurisdictions in the Baltimore region for the next twenty-plus years. In response to feedback from the public, a revised executive summary of the plan was posted on October 21 at www.baltometro.org and was available for review at libraries and local planning offices

We want to hear what you’re saying. E-mail us at mail@urbanitebaltimore.com or send your letter to Mail, Urbanite, P.O. Box 50158, Baltimore, MD 21211. Please include your name, address, and daytime phone number. Letters may be edited for length and clarity. You can also comment on our website (www.urbanitebaltimore.com/forum).

—Marianne Amoss

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what you’re seeing Starting in the April issue, the “What You’re Seeing” department will no longer use monthly themes; rather, this will be the place for photography that captures the true spirit of Baltimore. Urbanite staffers will choose our favorites to publish in the magazine and on our website. Along with your photograph, please include a brief description of the image and your contact information. For more information on how to submit your photograph, please go to www.urbanitebaltimore.com/wyseeing. PLEASE NOTE: By sending us a photograph, you are giving us full permission to publish the image in its entirety. This permission extends to the models and/or subjects in the photograph. It is essential that all people in the photograph be aware that the image may be published. Please read the limited license agreement on our website, www.urbanitebaltimore.com/wyseeing.

Show us …

Deadline

Publication Date

A Hero Urban Animals

Dec 21, 2007 Jan 18, 2008

Feb 2008 Mar 2008

Go to www.urbanitebaltimore.com/wyseeing for more information on how to submit your photograph. Photos can be e-mailed to wyseeing@urbanitebaltimore.com.

A Strange Car by Megan Klein

I am in eleventh grade at Carver Center for the Arts and Technology. I took this photo at the Maryland State Fair at the Little Richard’s concession stand. I had never seen a truck with a chicken on it. It seems like a good representation of the state fair; it’s colorful, bright, fun, and happy, just like the fair is to most people. —M.K.

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what you’re writing

“What You’re Writing” is the place for creative nonfiction from our readers. Each month, we pick a topic. Use the topic as a springboard into your own life and send us a true story inspired by that month’s theme. Only nonfiction submissions that include contact information can be considered. We reserve the right to edit heavily for space and clarity, but we will give you the opportunity to review the edits. You may submit under “name withheld” to keep your essay anonymous, but you do need to let us know how to contact you. If you’ve already changed the names of the people involved, please let us know. Due to libel and invasion-of-privacy issues, we reserve the right to print the piece under your initials. Submissions should be typed (and if you cannot type, please print clearly). Only one submission per topic, please. Send your essay to Urbanite, P.O. Box 50158, Baltimore, MD 21211 or to WhatYoureWriting@ urbanitebaltimore.com. Please keep submissions under four hundred words; longer submissions may not be read due to time constraints. Because of the number of essays we receive, we cannot respond individually to each writer. Please do not send originals; submissions cannot be returned. The themes printed below are for the “What You’re Writing” department only and are not the themes for future issues of the magazine itself.

Topic

Deadline

Publication

Winners and Losers Secrets Guns

Jan 4, 2008 Feb 1, 2008 Mar 7, 2008

Mar 2008 Apr 2008 May 2008

illustration by Laurent Hrybyk

WHITE LIES “Are monsters real?”

She was looking at me, honey hair poking out from beneath Rainbow Brite covers, poised for some reply. I was caught off guard, sucker-punched in that twelfth-round moment, careening off the Persian cat nightlight. “Can they get me here?” White lie: “A euphemism for such lies as one finds it convenient to tell, and excuses himself for telling.” (Thank you, Mr. Webster. I wonder how you put your children to bed.) I looked around, buying time while I bobbed and weaved. I panned the pink closet door, turn-

ing away for fear my 6-year-old self might come out screaming. I glanced over my shoulder to the sharp edge of the bed and heard my 12-year-old self ’s nightmares. “You’ll protect me,” she half-whispered, her voice choked. I was still a question mark masked as a father, wondering if perhaps I might open up with a joke, sing a far-off fifties lullaby. “Are they real?” Many colors for lies, each more revealing than its predecessor, scraping my insecurity to the bone. What to say? Should we pull the blankets back to

watch the night sky over Darfur glowing pumpkin orange from the fires of the burning bodies? Read a sleepy-time chapter to see if the supposed whiteknight hero down the street in apartment six was cranky when he murdered his wife and two children? Maybe if we play “X Marks the Spot” on her back she can bury her face in the pillow and not see me wipe my eyes dry and swallow back the thought of her dead aunt’s cancer. Or counting sheep will allow us to ignore that being scared happens all the time, and that it takes courage to wake up every day and face all the stories being told. “Are monsters real, Daddy?” w w w. u r b a n i t e b a l t i m o re . c o m d e c e m b e r 0 7

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Daddy … the white lie that I find convenient to tell myself, to excuse my stalling, to make up for the fact that I can’t be better, faster, stronger, smarter, able to make it all go away. “No such thing,” I whistled through whitely deceptive teeth, slipping out as she slipped off. Standing in the dimly lit doorway of my own childhood, I checked the closet door to make sure it was locked tight. —Matthew J. Bowerman is an acting teacher and director at Carver Center for Arts and Technology in Towson. He is a husband, dad, and professional actor who lives in Baltimore. His current writing involves a journey into playwriting, but this is his first sojourn into the field of essays.

I don’t want to go to work today. It’s

partially because a well-trained monkey could do my job, but more so because America needs me: I should be teaching people to be better people, planting trees, e-mailing government officials about citizen concerns, advocating for labor unions, creating sociopolitical art, revolutionizing thought to induce change. Instead, I work for “The Man” and spend my pre-work afternoons thinking of ways to get out of work. 1:30 p.m.: I could call in sick. In that case, I should have planted the seeds the day before with off-the-cuff remarks to my coworkers about feeling feverish. Or maybe a bad bout of food poisoning? But how do I fake diarrhea over the phone? And what if they want a doctor’s note? Like I have health insurance. I drain the water from my pasta and throw it in some Tupperware. 1:59 p.m.: How about a bad bicycle accident? A truck backed out of a parking spot and didn’t see me—or I was riding down a hill and someone opened the driver-side door and CRASH! This requires visible damage, like road rash and serious bruising. Not to mention damage to my bike. I’m definitely not inflicting damage on my bike, not my baby, no way. I grab my knapsack and carry my bike down my apartment stairs toward the street. 2:08 p.m.: I’m pedaling to work, knocking on hypothetical wood that no one actually backs into me or opens their car door in front of me. What

else? There’s the cliché “death in the family” excuse. But who, a grandparent? Then I realize that they’re old and this is possible and I’m certainly not taking the risk of fating one of them just so I can stay home and read and do laundry and maybe hang out with my boyfriend. Plus, I abhorred those kids in college. What kind of morally depraved person would fake someone else’s death so they can have three extra days to write a paper? 2:30 p.m.: I’m locking up my bike and I’m right on time. Until I can actually say that my revolutionary plans are in action and I need to be available to save America from all the institutionalized “–isms” of the world, I will be punching the clock every day just like everyone else. Maybe this is the beginning of my revolution; maybe I am holding true to my belief that lying—even little white lies—is wrong. —Heather Van De Mark, who describes herself as “young, green, and idealistic,” lives in Baltimore.

It was 1978, and my whole life was getting ready to unfold, and, little did I know, unravel right in front of my eyes. I had just turned 18, and I felt invincible. I was a jack-of-all-trades and master of none, so I decided to run with the one thing that came truly natural to me: having a good time. Disco music had just been thrust onto the masses with Saturday Night Fever, and with it came a whole new way to party and socialize. Cocaine was the cool new drug. If you had access, you always had friends, and you could feel energized and powerful. You were ready for anything and nothing could stop you. That was the first white lie. It wasn’t long until there were more white lies—only I was the one telling them. “Sure, I’ll call you.” “Of course I’ll have the rent paid on time.” “Don’t worry, I’ll be there.” On and on, into one big snowball. Later on, the white lies got bigger and started to take on a darker tone and cause deeper pain. “Daddy had to work late.” “Daddy’s going away to school.” “Daddy’s going to get help soon.” Eventually there was no one left to lie to. I needed help. I thought I could do this my way. I thought I was strong enough to make it happen. Finally, I surrendered and got help from other people just like me, who had told themselves the same lies. One day at a time, we now try to live to the best of our ability—no more white lies, just for today.

—Johnny Morris was raised in Little Italy; he now splits his time between Hampden and Shrewsbury, Pennsylvania. He is currently doing stand-up comedy and working on writing comedic material.

I was diagnosed with type-1 diabetes

at age 12. At the time, the only thing I knew about diabetes was that a kid in my class had it—a sickly, frail boy who was often absent from school. And he wasn’t an athlete, didn’t spend all day dreaming of and playing sports like me. I worried that diabetes would make me sick and frail like him. After a week in the hospital adjusting to insulin and diet changes, my parents and I attended a clinic called “Happy Hills.” The kids there reminded me of the boy in my class, and they weren’t very “happy.” I learned about testing my urine and the exchange diet, but I couldn’t wait to get home to watch or play basketball. I felt different from the boy in my class, and certainly different from the kids at Happy Hills. I didn’t know as much as they did about managing diabetes, but I knew it could be serious. It was difficult not to know. Tell someone you’re diabetic and they’ll invariably respond with a horror story about a grandmother who had her legs amputated or a brother on dialysis. How do you respond to those stories? I tried to keep my diabetes secret. It was my white lie of omission, my sugar-free secret. I never told teachers or classmates at school, and I rarely shared it with coworkers. Most close friends knew, but we never talked about it. I didn’t want people to worry or stereotype me. A good friend of mine, whose niece is type-1, invited me to spend the 2007 New Year at her sister’s condo in downtown Philadelphia. For reasons my endocrinologist would later explain, I passed out and ruined the party—Who invited these paramedics? We had planned to catch the Mummers parade the next morning, but rain and the trauma, still fresh from the night before, scrapped those plans. Instead we drank coffee, cleaned up, and went home. That was the last time I spoke to her, the last time I saw her. She didn’t return calls or e-mails and apparently no longer wanted to be my friend. White lies have isolated me, and at least one friend couldn’t accept the diabetic me, the real me. I suppose my white lies are better than losing friends. They have to be. ■

illustration by Laurent Hrybyk

—Michael Eckhardt lives in Federal Hill and is working on a collection of essays and short stories.

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CORKBOARD CORK Robert Smalls: Slave, Soldier, Statesman

Dec. 1-Dec. 15

On May 13, 1862, deckhand and slave Robert Smalls commandeered the South Carolina gunboat Planter and turned it over to Union forces during the Civil War. In honor of this feat, this fall the United States Army commissioned the Major General Robert Smalls—its first vessel named in honor of an African American— in a ceremony in the Inner Harbor. The 5,000-ton cargo carrier will be available for tours outside the World Trade Center December 1 and 2, and a photographic exhibit that tells the story of Smalls’ life runs through December 15 at the World Trade Center.

Top of the World Observation Level, World Trade Center 401 E. Pratt St. $5 adults, $4 seniors and military, $3 children 3–12, children under 3 free 410-837-8439 www.promotionandarts.org

Holiday Festival of Trains

Through Dec. 30

The B&O Railroad Museum boasts the oldest collection of vintage railroading paraphernalia in the Western hemisphere. Throughout the holidays, the public is invited to tour the forty-acre facility’s permanent exhibition of locomotives, signals, and railroad car accessories and check out model railroad layouts spanning up to fifty feet. Children can meet Santa every Saturday and Sunday throughout the festival.

Baltimore & Ohio Railroad Museum 901 W. Pratt St. $14 adults, $12 seniors, $8 children 2–12, children under 2 free 410-752-2490 www.borail.org

An Evening with Renée Fleming

Dec. 8, 8 p.m.

Renée Fleming, one of the most sought-after lyric sopranos singing today, appears in Baltimore for one night only. With the Baltimore Symphony Orchestra, Fleming will perform works by Handel, Puccini, and other greats in a benefit concert to support the Baltimore Opera Company. A limited number of $250 tickets include premium seating and a post-concert reception with Fleming herself.

Lyric Opera House 140 W. Mount Royal Ave. Tickets $50–$125 410-727-6000 www.baltimoreopera.com

Mount Vernon Holly Tour

Dec. 9, 11 a.m.

The city’s premiere historic district opens eleven restored homes, churches, and private offices to the public. Highlights include self-guided tours of the Baltimore Basilica, the 150-year-old Garrett Jacobs Mansion, and the First Unitarian Church of Baltimore, plus musical performances by the Basilica Choir and others. Proceeds benefit Friends of Mount Vernon Place, a nonprofit dedicated to conserving and ensuring the wide usage of the neighborhood’s four historic squares. Go to www.hollytour.com for information about a December 8 limited-capacity, $100 evening candlelight tour of homes not on the Sunday tour.

Registration begins at 11 a.m. in the Parish Hall of the First Unitarian Church at 514 N. Charles St. Tours 11 a.m.–5 p.m. $25 in advance/$30 day of event 443-524-2327

“Sing It Yourself ” Messiah

Dec. 14, 7:30 p.m.

Warm up your vocal chords: For the first time, the Baltimore Choral Arts Society invites the public to join in singing the choruses of Handel’s Messiah. Music director Tom Hall will serve as vocal coach for the night. Attendees can bring their own scores or purchase one in the lobby for $7.

Goucher College Kraushaar Auditorium 1021 Dulaney Valley Rd. $25 and $35; discounts available for groups of ten or more 410-523-7070 www.baltimorechoralarts.org

New Year’s Eve Interfaith Prayer Service

Dec. 31, 8-10 p.m.

With its fifteenth annual New Year’s Eve service, St. Ignatius Church invites Baltimoreans of all faiths “to pray for another successful year and express thanksgiving for the passing year.” The service includes songs and prayers led by cantors, pastors, and imams from Baltimore’s Jewish, Christian, and Muslim communities. A reception with tea, coffee, and light fare follows.

St. Ignatius Church, 740 N. Calvert St. 410-727-3848 www.st-ignatius.net/pages/ministries. html

Photo credits from top to bottom: courtesy of U.S. Army Reserve; courtesy of B&O Railroad Museum; courtesy of Decca and Andrew Eccles; courtesy of David Egan Photography; no credit; photo by La Kaye Mbah

w w w. u r b a n i t e b a l t i m o re . c o m d e c e m b e r 0 7

Warm wishes

for a cool

holiday season.

Mt Washington Mill | 1340 Smith Ave | Baltimore www.homeontheharbor.com | 410—433—1616

urbanite december 07

have you heard

compiled by lionel foster

courtesy of Bella Sorpresa

Giving Her the Slip For a gift for that lady in your life (or yourself!), skip the mall and head to Mount Vernon’s new lingerie boutique, Bella Sorpresa (339 N. Charles St.; 410962-2121). Owned by Baltimore native Charisse Paige and partner Kevin Smith, Bella Sorpresa is indeed a “beautiful surprise,” from the dark wood interior and R&B music in the background, to hand-pressed soaps and richly scented candles, to the shop’s raison d’etre: beautiful, wearable lingerie. Bella Sorpresa carries exquisite yet affordable lines, including Cosabella, Simone Perele, and Le Mystere,

which Oprah reportedly swears by. Prices for underthings range from $18 to $95, with sets costing between $80 and $170. Every item in the store has been hand-chosen by Paige and Smith. Bra fittings, personal shopping, bridal-party fittings, and after-hours parties are also available. Open Mon–Fri 10 a.m.– 6 p.m., Sat 11 a.m.–5 p.m. Go to www.bellasorpresa boutique.com. —Marianne Amoss

Just yards from the Jones Falls and the sound of rushing traffic on I-83, the Potters Guild of Baltimore (3600 Clipper Mill Rd.; 410-235-4884) provides a space for artists, students, and the public to explore the craft of pottery. Founded in 1955, the cooperatively owned and managed facility offers classes, equipment, workspace, and a sales gallery. Many guild members teach and exhibit their work throughout Baltimore. Membership is determined

by a paneled jury, but classes in throwing, hand building, finishing, and detailing are available for enthusiasts of all skill levels. The gallery is open six days a week and features the work of guild members at prices typically ranging between $5 for a holiday ornament and up to $300 for a large sculpture. Go to www.pottersguild.org. —Lionel Foster

pottery by Jann Tamburello

Hands-on Experience

courtesy of www.EnvironmentalLights.com

A Bright Idea Once a year, every family’s Keeper of the Bulbs braves the dark recesses of the attic or basement to do battle with yard upon tangled yard of tentacled Christmas lights, all the while dreading that evil link in the chain: the single dead bulb that kills the lot. But hark! Relief is here in the form of LED Christmas lights. Because LEDs (light-emitting diodes) depend on permanently encased chips instead of finicky little bulbs, there are no lights to replace. And

the energy savings makes them even more worthwhile: While typically more expensive to purchase, LEDs can consume ten percent or less of the electricity that traditional incandescents demand, and they last for up to twenty years. Look for them at most major home-supply retailers and drugstores. —L.F.

Have you heard of something new and interesting happening in your neighborhood? E-mail your news to editorial assistant Lionel Foster at Lionel@urbanitebaltimore.com, and you may see it in a future issue.

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This holiday season, it’s safe to bet that somewhere between getting body-checked in line at the toy store and putting up with visiting in-laws, you’ll need a break. Fortunately Pembroke Springs Retreat (6238 Wardensville Grade; 888-348-1688) in Virginia’s Shenandoah Valley is within easy yet familyproof reach. Pembroke is modeled after a traditional Japanese ryokan, an inn with baths built around a hot spring. Husband-and-wife owners Walter and Taeko Floyd built the five-bedroom B&B near a natural cold spring; the water in two large private baths is heated to 104 degrees. Go with your sweetie

or host an office getaway: Pembroke has space for business events, including a conference room. And with a pond stocked with bass for fishing, three miles of hiking trails, and such nearby attractions as Skyline Drive and Bryce Mountain Ski Resort, there’s plenty to do in between your daily soaks. Anyone interested in getting even closer to nature can rent a rustic cabin between mid-April and mid-October for $80 per night. Go to www.pembrokesprings.com for more information about rates. —L.F.

C’est Chic Those in the market for the perfect little New Year’s Eve cocktail dress might sneak a peek at the new Urban Chic (811 Aliceanna St.; 410-685-1601) in Harbor East. The boutique, which opened its first store in Georgetown in 2004, carries everything from jeans to pumps to winter coats—with some hip clothes for men and the trendy urban kid thrown in on the side. While many of the names in this collection scream drab—Julie Haus’ “Secretary Dress,” Free People’s “Granny Sweater Dress”—the designers are clearly

toying with expectations. Aside from the brown color, Tracy Reese’s “Paper Bag Tunic” bears little resemblance to its namesake: This is an elegant cocoa frock of crinkled rayon with a smart bow at the empire waist—a bag of some distinction at $300. Open Mon–Sat 10:30 a.m.–8 p.m., Sun 12 p.m.–5 p.m. Go to www.urbanchiconline.com. —Karen Houppert

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Comic Revival Comedian Marc Unger had headlined twice at Tracy’s Comedy Club in Parkville before he learned that it was struggling to turn a profit. Once word reached his brother, Andrew, the two siblings—who host The Fighting Ungers on Sports Talk WNST 1570—acted quickly. Andrew bought the club in August, and in September they reopened it under a new name: Magooby’s Joke House (9306 Harford Rd.; 410-3561010). Set in the basement of the Bowman Restaurant, the new-and-improved comedy club features acts from around the country, including stand-up

comics boasting appearances on Comedy Central and The Tonight Show. While enjoying the talent, you can snack on pub grub and lubricate your funny bone with one of the house cocktails, each named after a joke. Shows take place on Fridays and Saturdays at 8 p.m. and 10:15 p.m., with doors opening thirty minutes prior. Tickets are $12 and can be reserved online or by phone. Go to www.magoobys.com. —Harrison Brazier

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baltimore observed

Into the woods: A city plan to extend the Jones Falls Trail bike path into Mount Washington has split the neighborhood.

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Disputed Ground Even before Jeanette Ezzo has a chance to open her mouth, the birds begin making the case for her. On an early fall morning, they are dive-bombing in the tree tops, making a massive ruckus and helping demonstrate that this patch of woodland is indeed alive. A Mount Washington resident and the research director for a Takoma Park medical publication firm, Ezzo stands on one side of a fault line that runs through this leafy northwest neighborhood. The city plans to build a bicycle and recreation trail through the mostly unused woods that wrap around the Mt. Washington Pediatric Hospital on Rogers Avenue. A local group calling itself the Mount Washington Green Space Preservation Committee made an eleventh-hour plea to re-route the trail, but other residents have defended the plan, saying that a well-designed trail would give residents safe access to the kind of nature usually found in large parks a good drive away.

Ezzo is showing me what all the fuss is about. After just a few steps, the woods turn surprisingly remote, like a door suddenly slamming shut. We pick our way past a forgotten fitness trail, the pull-up bars and stretching stations slowly succumbing to the overgrowth. As Ezzo points out mature maples and talks about ecosystems and tree canopies and native species, she slowly creates the impression that this gulley—despite the sewer pipe, the manhole cover, and the telephone pole—is a rare urban wilderness. To drive home this point, Ezzo invokes Theodore Roosevelt’s famous retort to railroad officials who wanted to plant hotels around the Grand Canyon in 1903: “Leave it as it is. You cannot improve on it.” “Back then he was seen as anti-development, anti-progress,” she says. “Now he’s seen as a visionary.” The city has long planned on extending the Jones Falls Trail—which currently starts at Penn Station and follows Falls Road through Druid Hill Park—to Cylburn Arboretum and then into Mount Washington. As currently proposed in the city’s early plans, getting from Cylburn across Northern Parkway into Rogers Avenue will be quite the engineering feat: A ramp will be constructed to counter the roller-coaster steepness of Northern Parkway,

following along the Cylburn side. (Projects supported by federal highway funds have to comply with the Americans with Disabilities Act.) Just before the Jones Falls Expressway, a bridge will vector off at an angle over Northern Parkway into the serenity of Mount Washington. Finally, in the Mount Washington Village, bicyclists can debark and stroll the porch-side restaurants and shops. It’s a nice image, but many Mount Washingtonians are wary of having bit of remoteness turn into a recreational destination for the rest of city. “There is a lot of turmoil and tumult in the community,” says Debra Wertheimer. She grew up in the neighborhood and now has children and their families living nearby. “People’s hackles got put up. And the people who have proposed the plan have put a lot of work in it and they don’t feel appreciated.” The city has gone back and forth with the Mount Washington Improvement Association on the bike path issue since 2003, but the neighborhood controversy didn’t blow up until April, when a group of residents presented a petition with about 150 signatures calling for a delay until an environmental impact study could be done. It was handed to the association board on the night they voted almost unanimously (there was one abstention) to support

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baltimore observed the city’s proposal to draw up plans for the bicycle path. Association president Mac Nachlas says that the motion actually called for the city to ensure that the forest’s integrity stays intact; the board felt that the petitioners’ concerns were either already addressed or would be addressed as planning progressed. “You can’t ask the city to design the whole trail down to the last tree and then give them an up or down vote,” he says. But the association’s vote also meant it supported the location of the trail. “Right after the vote, [things] got really nasty,” says Cindy Freeman, an Improvement Association board member. “The people who were opposed [to the bike path] feel that the association didn’t listen to them and didn’t have enough information. The Improvement Association believes they have opened up the meetings and tried to make it as well known as possible.”

Online, neighbors clashed on community listservs and news groups. The Improvement Association established a Jones Falls Trail Committee to focus on studying the plan. Meanwhile, at the request of planning department director Doug McCoach, the Improvement Association invited citizens to submit alternative routes for consideration. Resident Chris Tufts proposed a bike trail that rings the woods around what was previously known as the University of Baltimore fields, also on Rogers Avenue. Tufts’ trail would run along the woods encircling the forty-eight-acre playing fields, with a bridge across Northern Parkway crossing closer to Sinai Hospital at the Greenspring Avenue intersection. Several similar plans were put forth and discussed at community/city meetings in October. These variations are now under consideration by the city, Nachlas says. City environmental planner Beth Strommen, the recently appointed manager of Baltimore’s new Office of Sustainability, oversaw the initial Jones Falls Trail route in Mount Washington, and she sees advantages in both proposals: Tufts’ alternative would plug the trail into an already existing park, but the drawback is sending cyclists down Cross Country Boulevard, a bit of a hill, to a trail that’s slated to be built along the Western Run greenway that follows Kelly Avenue to the Mount Washington Village. She also said that the city is hoping to apply in March for funding from the Federal Highway Enhancement Program, which favors off-road bike trails and does not allow the money to be spent on automotive roads. “It depends on whom you ask,” she says. “You ask people whose houses back up on the forest and they don’t want anything. If you ask

photo by Gail Burton

“They get very insulted if you accuse them of being NIMBYs,” says Cindy Freeman. “Not to say they are, but it is in their backyard.”

Trail mix: Mount Washington resident Chris Tufts has proposed an alternate route for the bike path.

people who don’t live around there, they want access to the forest, too. It’s one of those things for which there is no answer.” In a sense, the spat reflects a larger philosophical divide within American environmentalism. There’s the urge to preserve land as an untouched reserve, a weak gesture of grace in face of all the lost wildlands. But then there’s the other perspective— nature as the Great Outdoors, a place for wholesome human recreation. “You’re going to find a tension in both points of view,” says Peter Groffman, a senior scientist with the Institute of Ecosystem Studies, whose work includes the federally funded Baltimore Ecosystem Study. One of the things that the study investigates is human attitudes and responses to nature. “There is a temptation to say this [urban forest] is not a real wilderness, but if you’re a kid in that neighborhood, this might be your whole sense of wilderness.”

Within Mount Washington, the bike path standoff seems to come down to the old-guard versus relative newcomers: people who envision plopping their kids in bike seats and whisking them through the nature trail, as opposed to the old-timers who cherish the serenity and isolation of the unused woods. “It seems that a lot of people who are opposed are residents who have lived here for a long time,” says Freeman, who voted for the city’s original proposal and is a mother of a 4-year-old. “They are opposed to changing the neighborhood. They get very insulted if you accuse them of being NIMBYs. Not to say they are, but it is in their backyard.” In a neighborhood that treats its stock of ancient trees like family crests, development skirmishes are not uncommon, from the resistance to the Light Rail station in the early 1990s to concerns over the USF&G Campus on Smith Avenue (now part of Johns Hopkins) in 1995. Mount Washington residents tend to see themselves as vigorous steww w w. u r b a n i t e b a l t i m o re . c o m d e c e m b e r 0 7

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ards of their historic, bucolic enclave. “I told the fire department that if there is a fire here, don’t worry about the house, save the trees,” says Tufts, gazing at the elephantine oak in his front yard. “No one had a problem with the trail coming through Cylburn or Druid Hill Park. People are probably wondering, What is it that makes Mount Washington so contentious? It’s the air we breathe.” A few days after touring the woods with Ezzo, I return to take a hike with Dr. Michael Sherlock, a Mount Washington resident and pediatrician. He points to the English Ivy working its way up the trees. “It will actually strangle the tree, like a big boa constrictor.” Then he picks out a healthy young tree jutting skyward. “That’s the Norway maple— the only bad maple out there. It secretes a chemical from the roots that inhibits the growth of competing trees.”

“People are probably wondering, What is it that makes Mount Washington so contentious?” says resident Chris Tufts. “It’s the air we breathe.” Sherlock, who grew up in Montana and holds a landscape design degree, doesn’t see a pristine wilderness; he sees a patch of forest choking under vines and fast-growing exotics. After seeing what the city has done with the Gwynns Falls Trail, which heads west from Harborplace through Leakin Park, he’s confident that the city could construct an environmentally sensitive path through these woods, weeding out the invasive species and actually improving the general health of the forest. Other bike path proponents see a possible winwin for the community once the path is built. As a city planner for seventeen years, Strommen oversaw Baltimore’s early efforts to create bike lanes and recreational trails. The angst over the Mount Washington bike trail reminds her of the similarly fraught planning of the North Central Railroad Trail that now extends from Ashland, Maryland, near Hunt Valley, to the Pennsylvania border and then connects to the York County Heritage Trail. Many residents who lived along the proposed path opposed its construction, but the trail has since become popular with both locals and cyclists. “It was extremely controversial,” she says, “and now [the residents] love it. They can go out their back door … and ride down the trail.” Ultimately, Improvement Association president Nachlas has hopes that all the controversy will get the neighborhood a different, better trail. As he points out, there has always been acrimony when change comes to the tall trees of this neighborhood. “I’m fairly certain that, two hundred years ago, when the second person built a house in Mount Washington, the first family said, ‘Uh, oh—here comes the trash.’” —Charles Cohen

illustration by Deanna Staffo

baltimore observed

I lived two lives: Thanks to geography and cheaper housing, Baltimore is a hub for people who split their time between cities.

day to day

The Baltimore Split Every fourth morning or so, I wake up in a new city. No, I’m not one of those executives who shuffles through airports and conference rooms in search of deals in the new global business landscape. Nor am I a traveler in the traditional sense, sure that the only way to guarantee adventure is to keep moving forward. My life instead is a kind of a loop: today New York, three days later Baltimore, and back again. In the year and a half since I joined the circuit, taking planes, trains and, usually, buses, back and forth between my two homes (one where I am in graduate school, the other where my partner is in school), I’ve noticed that many of my fellow passengers are doing the same thing, trying to live in two places at once. Recent U.S. Census Bureau surveys have shown a marked increase in the number of so-called “extreme commuters”—people who travel more than ninety minutes to work each day—and Baltimore is tied with New York City for having the greatest number of these unlucky souls, 5.6 percent of all workers. Split-city living takes this to the next level: It’s having physical ties—a job, a lease or a mortgage, a network of friends and neighbors and roommates—to two places. And while budget airlines and interstates have eased traveling across the country or up and down the Boston-Washington corridor on a whim, those who have adapted the split-city lifestyle have taken the further step of establishing multiple homes as work and relationships demand. The usual culprits—in particular, the peculiar freedom technology gives us to be on

the job no matter where we are—are to blame here, but this shift has more to do with changes in society than the speed of Internet connections or transportation systems. Look at railroad timetables published seventy years ago, and you’ll find that getting to New York from Baltimore took about the same time then that it takes now. Split-city living has arisen and, I’ll argue, become more common in recent decades because fewer people are willing or able to compromise the demands of work and home. Instead of forcing them to fit together, many people are allowing their work and home lives to grow apart. Although one might assume that this bifurcated lifestyle is for the young and feckless, many professionals find that inflexible job markets and high real estate prices make it easier to pick a less expensive city, like Baltimore, in which to invest their mortgages and work elsewhere until their job itself becomes mobile. While this eventually happens for some, there are many fields—the financial sector, academia—where the jobs don’t move, so people do. New York may be no closer to Baltimore than it was seven decades ago, but the cost of living there and a few other “superstar cities” has gone up dramatically, while the rest of the country watches and wonders if they’ll ever see the same boom. And while the suburbs once promised affordable housing, good schools, and easy commutes, that’s no longer the case, forcing the hand of many who might have been able to make things work in decades past. Last year, on the 10:05 p.m. train back to Baltimore on a Friday night, I sat next to a man who worked in New York in the financial industry. He and his wife had moved to Baltimore so she could attend a doctoral program at Johns Hopkins, and after graduating she quickly found a job at the National Institutes of Health. As he progressed in his career, it became increasingly clear that he needed to work in New York, and they decided it would be better if they stayed in Maryland and he commuted to the city w w w. u r b a n i t e b a l t i m o re . c o m d e c e m b e r 0 7

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sustainable city

Who Loves the Sun? Alli Oroski has the stage presence of a cookingshow veteran. A University of Maryland architecture grad student, she’s standing behind a kitchen island, wielding a saucepan in her right hand and a magnet in her left. An electromagnetic stovetop like the one in front of her works only in the presence of iron, which makes it great for avoiding burns. But it’s useless coupled with the wrong cookware, so, in preparation for today’s demo, Oroski carried her magnet to the shopping mall to be sure she chose the right pots. Now she extols the energy efficiency of the stovetop and fields a barrage of questions from her audience. She’s sporting a black polo shirt emblazoned with a green leaf logo—a visual acronym for Leading Everyone to an Abundant Future, and an homage to the natural world’s most effective solar converter. This is the University of Maryland’s LEAFHouse, the school’s official entry in the Solar Decathlon. The biennial Department of Energysponsored competition pits twenty teams from colleges and universities around the world in a contest to design, finance, build, and operate an attractive, high-performance solar-powered home. Constructed on each team’s campus and trucked to the National Mall for the duration of the eight-day, ten-event competition in October, the demo homes serve a dual purpose—getting college students excited about the potential for elegant, effective solar power for the residential market and priming the imaginations of the more than 120,000 people who visit the dwellings. Each structure must hew to strict parameters: Its footprint must be less than 800 square feet; it must draw its power exclusively from the sun; and every appliance must be commercially available. Most of the teams have a one-bedroom competition model and present plans for larger versions in their brochures, to catch the eye of potential investors. “We designed LEAFHouse in several sizes and forms—competition model, starter model, empty nester, and 2,000-squarefoot family model,” says Oroski. “It shows the versatility of the design and allows people to see that they could live in a LEAFHouse as well. We’d love it if someone wanted to develop a LEAFHood.” While the judges evaluate market viability for each design concept, no spending limit constrains the versions entered in the competition, and budgets range from $500,000 to nearly $1 million. In this context, affordability is largely hypothetical: Each team posits a scenario for achieving economies of scale and estimates what construction would cost per square foot. While a production version of the LEAFHouse competition model would likely ring in at $228 per square foot, or close to $200,000, the Maryland crew figures the value of the one-off house on the Mall at about $550,000. They spent a lot less, thanks to an all-volunteer design and construction team and more than $200,000 in donations from sponsors

photo by Kaye Evans-Lutterodt/Solar Decathlon

during the week. He took the train up late Sunday each week, stayed in a sublet room in midtown, and returned to Maryland every Friday night. When I talked to him about this arrangement, he had been doing this for two years, and he was content only because the alternative—getting transferred to Beijing—seemed even more difficult. More recently, I spoke with a woman who was in a master’s program at Columbia. She and her boyfriend, a creative writing student at Hopkins, met when they were living in two nearby cities in the Midwest—Chicago and Madison, Wisconsin— and connected when they learned they were both planning to move to the East Coast in a few months. Now, several years later, he continues to write in Baltimore, she studies in New York, and they are still deciding what to do next. Others have less pressing reasons to pursue this lifestyle. Some are Baltimore natives who maintain ties with family and friends here through frequent extended visits, even if their career path takes them elsewhere. Some are still feeling their way through life, staying in one city until they feel like switching the channel and going to their other home. It is not a cheap or easy life, and a missed bus or train, a lastminute appointment, an emergency home repair, or a bad cell phone connection can at any moment tumble the whole house of cards. This lifestyle might sound like its own circle of hell, but it has its benefits. Living in two places allows me to be a native or a tourist, with the benefits of each; I can spend half the day in my neighborhood coffee shop in Brooklyn and not feel like I’m missing out on seeing the sights of Manhattan, or go to Fells Point and pretend I’m discovering it anew. It is also a way to make literal what is often unstated in many people’s lives. The responsibilities of work, family, and relationships are often in conflict, and much of life is taken up with our attempts to make it all work. Split-city living succeeds in part because it segments our lives in advance: In this place you work, and in that you live, although it often seems like the reverse is true. In twenty years, will this arrangement seem as natural as hour-long commutes are today? It isn’t hard to imagine some of those new-generation Charm City homeowners who work in D.C. eventually subletting a room in Washington to save on commuting time during the week, especially if the region’s highway congestion eventually bests L.A. and officially makes Balto-Wash the traffic-jam capital of North America. But those who live in two cities might not have the time or inclination to do the sort of community building that makes a residential area a neighborhood. As for full-time Baltimoreans, they’ll have to adjust to being neighbors with people they rarely see, a problem that now besets resort towns and lifestyle cities like San Francisco. And, just as people who moved to the suburbs for the schools found themselves staying long after their kids graduated, we might see people who began split-city living because there was no viable alternative continue because they don’t want to give up their ties to both poles of their existences. Once we split our lives, it might be too difficult to reconcile them again.

Bright young things: College and university teams vie for the prize at the 2007 Solar Decathlon in Washington, D.C.

for everything from photovoltaic panels to the plants in the green wall. Most of the houses incorporate passive solar heat and natural daylighting, with open southern sides adorned with adjustable shades and northern exposures with smaller windows near the ceiling to capture winter light, along with patios, decks, and extensive landscaping—often irrigated by grey-water filtration systems. As visitors stroll the main street of the temporary solar village, they pass the Cornell Light Canopy’s vegetable gardens and the University of Texas at Austin BLOOMhouse’s bright-orange hot tub. Each structure has a unique character: With its peaked roof and exposed timbers, the Maryland entry was built to evoke the biological architecture of a stem and veins; on the east side of the village, the University of Cincinnati’s [re]form house marries an industrial sensibility with a hippie do-it-yourself ethos, mixing metallic finishes with hand-knit upholstery. The University of Colorado at Boulder— winner of the 2002 and 2005 competitions—dubbed its concept CORE, to highlight the modular prefab design with kitchen, bathroom, and mechanical systems integrated to fit inside a shipping crate, with peripheral spaces constructed on site. The Maryland squad boasts the closest thing to a home-field advantage, and they saved big on hauling expenses and hotels. “Plenty of people slept here last night,” says architecture professor and team faculty advisor Amy Gardner, gesturing to the tigerwood floor. (Another LEAFHouse faculty advisor, Julie Gabrielli, is an occasional Urbanite contributor.) She’s standing post at the translucent pocket door that separates the Murphy bed from the kitchen and living area and keeping an eye on a student explaining the liquid desiccant wall, a humidity-fighting indoor water feature that helps reduce the air-conditioner load—essential for the Mid-Atlantic climate. With its carmelized bamboo trim, it looks like a w w w. u r b a n i t e b a l t i m o re . c o m d e c e m b e r 0 7

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urbanite december 07

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photo by Kaye Evans-Lutterodt/Solar Decathlon

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Storybook Ending

Day in the sun: Solar decathletes demonstrate team spirit

framed waterfall behind glass, and throughout the competition, visitors lounge on the couch, watching the indoor cataract work its magic. But Gardner isn’t lounging. Visitors have been tugging on the translucent panel the spiky-haired professor now blocks, curious to test its sturdiness, and she figures that without a bodyguard it’s only a matter of time before the thing gives out under the strain of experimentation. Throughout the week, judges periodically pop in to test the hot-water performance of the shower, measure indoor humidity and light levels, and assess the operation of the appliances. With six days to go, the LEAFHouse crew intends to keep the place in showroom condition. When she spies a smudge on the hem of the fluffy white bedcover, Gardner dives for the floor, brushing at the fabric. “Is that dirt?”

On a beautiful fall day in November, Clark’s Elioak Farm in Ellicott City is bustling with kids, parents, and schoolteachers. It is the last weekday of the farm’s season; owner Martha Clark, who operates and lives on the farm with her family, is buzzing around, checking on school groups and making sure that waiting families get a hayride. Between hunting through the pumpkin patch and petting the ponies, children clamber in and around a giant

Shoe (and the shoe itself). Unlike Baltimore’s popular streetcar amusement parks—Gwynn Oak, Carlin’s Park, and Bay Shore—the Enchanted Forest was integrated from the beginning. It was not a site for hair-raising thrills. “There are no mechanical rides,” Harrison explained in 1955 to the Baltimore News-Post. “We hope that the children will enjoy the make-believe figures that are before their eyes.”

Meanwhile, across the hallway, a large man leans into the compact bathroom as freshman Cheryl Liu stands by the sink, extolling the virtues of the dual-flush commode, which conserves water by matching the flush volume to the task at hand. “What happens when the toilet floods?” he asks. “I guess you grab a towel,” Liu says, then resumes her pitch to highlight the composite fiberglass, aluminum, and glass cloth pocket walls that divide the kitchen, bedroom, toilet area, and shower. Back in the kitchen, Oroski demonstrates the hinges that keep the kitchen cupboards from slamming and again describes how the concrete countertop framing the stove and the sink incorporates fly ash, a byproduct of coal-fired electric generating plants. Visitor Sue Westervelt, from Aston, Pennsylvania, is suitably impressed: She pronounces the LEAFHouse her favorite. “We love the kitchen,” she says. “And the waterfall is so cool.” At the end of the week, Decathlon judges endorse Westervelt’s assessment, awarding the LEAFHouse the People’s Choice Award and high enough rankings in the architecture, communications, hot water, and lighting competitions to garner a number two finish—second only to Germany’s Technische Universität Darmstadt. “People would come in and say ‘I could live here right now,’” says Oroski. “That was the goal.” —Sharon Tregaskis

photo by Jason Okutake

One visitor is is suitably impressed. “We love the kitchen,” she says. “And the waterfall is so cool.”

Land of enchantment: Closed for more than a decade, a vintage theme park is being moved, piece by piece, to a nearby farm.

Easter Egg, a large purple shoe with a slide out the front, and a boat on a lake next to a big blue whale. These curious fiberglass artifacts are relics from the Enchanted Forest, the roadside amusement park a few miles away on Route 40 that featured figures from nursery rhymes and fairy tales. A beloved childhood institution for generations of Marylanders, the park has been shuttered for more than a decade. But thanks to a dedicated effort by a host of Enchanted Forest fans, many of the original attractions have been rescued or recreated and then installed at Clark’s farm. Opening in 1955 (a month after Disneyland), the Enchanted Forest grew from a promise that Baltimore motel developer Howard E. Harrison made to his grandchildren—to make the fairy tales he read them real. At its height, the fifty-two acre site drew about 300,000 visitors each six-month season. Created in the tradition of “storybook parks” that dotted the country at the time, the forest’s paths were dotted with child-sized dwellings inhabited by familiar characters like the Three Little Pigs, Snow White, Sleeping Beauty, and the Old Woman Who Lived in a

The Enchanted Forest closed in 1988, succumbing to the fate of many similar independent roadside attractions after the rise of interstates and high-tech theme parks. JHP Development bought the site from the Harrisons for more than $4.5 million, bulldozing part of it to build a shopping center and briefly reopening the rest in 1994 after investing $300,000 in improvements. It closed again shortly thereafter. Since then, the park has been padlocked; there are “no trespassing” signs posted on the castle’s drawbridge and a tall chain link fence around the property. But, improbably, the Forest may have a second life. In 2004, Clark (whose family put the “Clark” in “Clarksville”—her family has been farming in Howard County since 1797) acquired Cinderella’s pumpkin coach, which had been discovered and restored by an Enchanted Forest fan, and the farm opened that season with the restored coach on display. It was an immediate hit, and since then, Clark’s invested $200,000, most of it her own money, into moving the Enchanted Forest, piece by piece, to her farm. The current owners of the property, Kimco Realty Corp., agreed to let Clark haul everything she w w w. u r b a n i t e b a l t i m o re . c o m d e c e m b e r 0 7

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Fairest of them all: Martha Clark has put $200,000 into rescuing the Enchanted Forest. “It’s priceless,” she says. “There’s so much history. It’s important to so many people.”

can off the site. It’s a formidable task: Trailering the figures away costs between $2,000 and $20,000, depending on size (the old woman’s shoe was too tall to pass under power lines, so it was cut in half and reassembled at the farm). Through its Save-ALandmark program, Hampton Hotels has donated money and volunteers, and companies like Expert House Movers have also pitched in to help rescue the Forest. The job of restoring the original figures has largely fallen to Mark Cline of Natural Bridge, Virginia. He visited the Enchanted Forest with his parents as a child, an experience so formative that he founded a company called Enchanted Castle Studio in 1982 and dedicated himself to the construction of elaborate fiberglass figures for theme parks and roadside attractions. (Among his creations: Foamhenge, a realistic Stonehenge replica, and Escape From Dinosaur Kingdom, which depicts a battle between life-sized dinosaurs and Civil-War-era Union soldiers.) “I believed that you grew up and lived in your castle,” he says. “As I got older, realities set in, but I kept that dream alive by creating my own enchanted castle.” Cline has been working with Clark to repair or recreate from scratch several Enchanted Forest pieces, studying old photos so that he can replicate the originals as closely as possible. Modern techniques make this work easier than it was in the

1950s—rather than form the figure out of wire mesh and then cover it with a mixture of fiberglass and concrete, Cline now creates a foam sculpture and pours the fiberglass over the top. But, because of their weight, some figures don’t fully survive their rescue: When a crane pulled Willy free of his lake,

Old King Cole still remains, however, perched atop a sign listing the tenants of the Enchanted Forest strip mall and pointing to the castle that once welcomed visitors. the whale crumbled under its own weight, leaving only the wire frame and the tail. Cline managed to rebuild the figure around that frame, so “the spirit of the whale is still there,” he says. The restored Willy the Whale now sits next to the Merry Miller’s house at the farm. “It’s a labor of love in many respects,” he says. “This is part of our heritage, a part of Americana that’s gone, and people are trying to grasp it again.” Martha Clark believes that she’s successfully relocated nineteen of the thirty-odd original attractions; the others are now in private hands, have

succumbed to the effects of time and weather, or were destroyed in the fire that was set on the property in 1990. Old King Cole still remains, however, perched atop a sign listing the tenants of the Enchanted Forest strip mall and pointing to the castle that once welcomed visitors. Behind the drawbridge, the only relics visible are the white posts that once marked a pathway and a circus tent covered on one side by black graffiti. Even in its present state, there’s something, well, enchanted about this place. Peering through the fence, you can see sunlight flitter across the forest floor, and there’s the castle, a flash of white against the blue sky. The king’s once-sturdy citadel is falling apart—there are large cracks in its white walls, and one of the towers is buttressed with a two-by-four— but Cline and Clark hope to be able to save the green dragon that still guards the entrance. “These are figures I grew up with; they’re almost like friends,” Cline says. “I’m the prince coming back to the kingdom. Instead of slaying the dragon, I’m revitalizing it.” —Marianne Amoss

To see more photos from the Enchanted Forest, go to www.urbanitebaltimore.com

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urbanite december 07

Will Work for Change Robert Egger, president of D.C. Central Kitchen and co-founder of

the Nonprofit Congress, on why charities need to get off their knees I NTE R V I E W PHOT OGRAPH

B Y BY

ne chilly night twenty years ago, Robert Egger joined his wife and a handful of other charitable souls in search of Washington, D.C.’s hungry and homeless. Without much work, they found them and fed them with food a church group had bought at the Georgetown Safeway. But the “good work” of the night left Egger vaguely unsatisfied. He hungered to do more.

At the time, friends who worked in catering near the nightclub Egger managed were telling him how troubled they were by the amount of uneaten food they were tossing into Dumpsters every night—about 25 percent of what their cooks whipped up. Troubled himself by the squalid lives of the homeless people he witnessed, the treat-the-symptoms fatalism of charities, and the wasted hors d’oeuvres from so many Reagan-era bacchanals, Egger dreamed up the idea of getting people off the streets by teaching them how to turn donated leftover restaurant food into meals. Since Inauguration Day 1989, when Egger started D.C. Central Kitchen, more than six hundred people have been trained for jobs in the culinary industry and more than eighteen million meals have been assembled for those too poor to afford them. While building up his charity, he also helped rescue the reputation of the scandal-scarred United Way of the National Capital Area, where the previous leader had been jailed after stealing $500,000 of the organization’s donations. Egger served there as executive director in 2002 and 2003. He also coordinated the Campus Kitchens Project, which utilizes twelve public school cafeterias nationwide during off-hours to feed the hungry. “I’m the king of using what’s already there,” says Egger, 49. But he’s also an upstart who gives capital-P Philanthropy a well-placed kick in its worsted pants. In his 2004 book, Begging for Change: The Dollars and Sense of Making Nonprofits Responsive, Efficient, and Rewarding for All (HarperCollins), Egger challenged his charity-running colleagues to remake themselves—or face extinction. Because there are so many charities now (around one and a half million in the United States), those that don’t make a difference by working to solve the causes of the problems they attempt to remedy should fold up their tents and get out of the way, Egger writes. A punk-rock aficionado who dedicated his book to Joey Ramone and Joe Strummer, Egger is less charitable to the dead-rich-guy mode of philanthropy hammered in stone over a century ago by the likes of Andrew Carnegie and John D. Rockefeller. That model, he believes, has resulted in a nonprofit sector that genuflects to the trickle-down money that donors, foundations, and governments give it, while often creating a codependency between charities and the clients whom they purport to serve. Egger’s aim is hardly modest (and not always popular with what he calls “nonprofiteers”): He’d like to change all that. During a trip to India in 2003, Egger pondered how the British managed to maintain people I N T Econtrol R V I over E W350Bmillion Y AN N E with H Aonly D Dthree AD thousand Royal Army officers around the time of World War II. “It hit me— that’s the nonprofit sector!” he says. “The British divided and conquered.

MI CHAE L MARSHALL

ANFT CLARKE

And nonprofits are the Indians, splintered up and concerned only with their own little area, their own tiny piece of the pie. Meanwhile, we get squeezed to do our work and the problems never really get solved. We need a new model.” The Indian National Congress—the multi-class, multi-ethnic, multireligious political party that helped India achieve its independence in 1947—inspired Egger to co-convene a national Nonprofit Congress to bring charities together to collectively flex their political muscle. The group met for the first time last year.

Q A

You’ve said there are too many charities. Is that even possible?

Yeah, it is. We’re creeping towards two million. In D.C. alone, there are 25,000. If the median salary of each executive director is $50,000, that’s a total of $1.25 billion per year. That’s real money! What we’re already seeing is this euphemistic race to the bottom. There are a lot of charities that can’t pay benefits to their Gandhi said, “The employees. They’re so concerned oppressed and the with just making payroll and providing basic services, they can’t oppressor are equally plan for the future. We’re facing afﬂicted.” I have more a winnowing whether we like it or not. interest in healing

Reducing the number of the oppressor. There’s charities could be a good thing, as long as we concentrate on keeping where the action’s at. the most meaningful groups and their work, not the cleverest marketing strategies. I find it absurd that we dole out medical research money based on the marketing success of colored ribbons.

You’ve written that nonprofits will change to deal with new social problems, but they’re very reluctant to change how they operate. Why is that?

Between 1975 and 1990, there was an explosion of charities created by women of the 1970s left P H O T O G who R A once P H worked Y B Yin the C Rhome. A I GTheCgeneration HIN home and they said, “It’s my turn.” They came in with a desire to do good things. Their self-worth is wrapped up in their organizations. We’re now w w w. u r b a n i t e b a l t i m o re . c o m d e c e m b e r 0 7

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seeing a clumsy transition of that founding generation to the sustaining generation. People come in and get disappointed at the obstinacy of the founding generation. Lately, founding-generation leaders have been told to branch out and tackle, like, six other challenges, which requires more and more money. So, they might be changing, but in the wrong way. Foundinggeneration leaders don’t have the expertise to deal with those challenges and they act as a drain on money that could go to better uses. The funding public is going to demand that the money they donate achieves some results.

We know what the road to hell is paved with. Yet, many charities seem content to continue on with their work without making strong efforts to become more effective or to get at the roots of problems, which are still around after one hundred years of philanthropy in the United States. How can they avoid the trap door to hell?

The nonprofit sector has been in a vacuum for forty years. In the past, Americans didn’t necessarily care about the quality of the services charities gave because there was all this extra stuff—food, entertainment, money. But as the economy tightens, we’ll see that dissipate. The answer for nonprofits is not to get so lost in the good work they do that they forget to tell their story. It’s OK if they’re doing one thing and one thing well. If you take what we’re already doing and squeeze that orange a bit more, we’ll get a good bit more juice out of it.

Charities spend an awful lot of their time on their knees, begging for money. Some charities put a nickel in their direct-mail solicitations, apparently to make people feel guilty enough to donate. What’s wrong with this picture?

This is a byproduct of a saturated market. A lot of charities will do anything to keep the money flowing in; as J.R. Ewing said, “Once you give up your integrity, everything else is easy.” And direct-mail marketers will tell you that you have two choices: You can educate people about your cause, or you can make money. But the reality is people want to hear a logical model, something that you’ve thought through—not an emotioninducing picture of a suffering kid. People don’t necessarily want charity anymore; they want philanthropy. Good deeds done dirt-cheap is charity. What we need is good deeds done smart. Carnegie and Rockefeller thought they were going after root causes. But that model says you make a bunch of money and give a little back to deal with the root causes you created as you made all that money. One new way to look at all that these days is social philanthropy—the idea that you make philanthropy work every day around you, not some time after you’ve died. I’d like to develop a seal of approval for businesses that pay good wages, treat people well, and deal with the community in a real way. I like the idea of a “buycott”—the opposite of a boycott—where people who care about charity and fairness shop at businesses that do good. This is the great, next step: Instead of dealing with punishing corporations who might be way off track, deal with reward. Gandhi said, “The oppressed and the oppressor are equally afflicted.” I have more interest in healing the oppressor. There’s where the action’s at. That’s where the baby’s being thrown into the river.

Last year, the D.C. Central Kitchen called a “strike” against the D.C. city government, arguing that by taking the insufficient amounts of money that the government offered, you were enabling lawmakers to constantly short poor people who need services, such as the ones your group provides. What kind of relationship should charities have with the governments that fund them?

It’s almost like tough love. At what point are you an enabler? We enabled the city agency not to pay enough to make sure people get proper nutrition. Cities shouldn’t ask us to do things they’d never ask a business to do. [The strike] was an interesting experiment. In the backs of our heads, many of us who run charities say, “Oh, if we went away, they’d be sorry.” Nurses and teachers go on strike routinely, so why not nonprofit workers? We walked out on the day [public assistance] checks came out, so we knew no one would go hungry. Nonetheless, it was very confusing for the public because they can’t get their heads around the idea of charities pulling out of the delivery of services. There’s got to be a better way to handle it.

What led you to push for and ultimately help form the Nonprofit Congress?

I’m a big believer in the idea that we’ve got to become political, up to the point of running for office ourselves. As individual citizens who run charities, we’ve been taught to walk around with our fingers crossed and hope our money doesn’t get cut. We need to get together, be smarter, and start using our power. There’s a myth that we have nothing in common. In fact, we have three things that bind us together. One, we’re about to be regulated. We have the biggest pot of untaxed revenue in America. It’s too big a prize for the federal government not to come and get it. Two, we get no media coverage, unless it’s scandals or fluff. Three, administrative costs [the amount a charity spends on operations and not on direct services to clients] are used as a way to determine how effective we are, which is bunk. There are times when you have to find common ground. Our history has been to fight It’s not in the system’s each other over scraps. That’s nature to spontaneously ridiculous. Imagine Martin Luther King Jr. or Gandhi—they re-create itself. But got people together after they democracy is not pretty, had been divided. Nonprofits have this idea that, “Hey, we can’t man. Sometimes you get pols mad at us. What would have to bite, scratch, and happen?” It seems daunting. But that’s why I love history. When claw. That’s what we even the poorest people have have to do. A nonprofit gotten together, the illusion of power dissipates and they can sector that’s built on change things in their favor.

What, ideally, should the Nonprofit Congress achieve?

the independence of charities and the people they deal with will help create a different America.

The number-one thing I want is an informed public. I’m a mad, passionate advocate of getting people together and shaking down our institutions. A Nonprofit Congress, or something like it, should march down to the newspaper and say, “Here’s a major industry in your city and it doesn’t get a single page in your paper during the week.” In D.C., there are 25,000 nonprofits, and they control close to $6 billion in assets. But all we get is seasonal stories or scandals. Scandals have come to define for many Americans—at a time when we need a vibrant, robust movement—what the sector is. Those stories give people an excuse to walk away. It chips away at the trust. continued on page 93

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photo by Jason Okutake

hen the phone rings at my desk at work, Jill’s voice has that nervous, giggly tone, the one that tells me she’s done something crazy and she’s hoping I’ll let it pass without a lot of griping. She tells the story in one rushed sentence, how she got home and parked the car and saw two kids and noticed a cardboard box and heard a squeak and asked what was that and the answer came back: “A cat. You want it?” So it begins, our life as neighborhood do-gooders. I don’t realize this at the time. In the moment, it seems we’re adopting a kitten, nothing more. This kitten is adorable, by the way, her orange fur dotted with gray splotches that make it look like she’s been scrambling up a chimney. We call her Smudge, and I don’t gripe about her at all. But I do gripe when Jill promptly leaves town for a few days, stranding me alone with two cats, one middle-aged and set in his ways, the other brand-new and full of restless energy. Both are soon about the mysterious feline business of deciding whether to bond as siblings or just claw each other to death. So it’s a tense, sleep-deprived household that gets rocked two days

later at 6:30 a.m. by a furious pounding at the door. I rush downstairs, half expecting to land in the middle of urgent police business. Instead, I open the door and an 8-year-old stranger storms in, all bluster and bravado, like he’s gonna flat out kick my ass if I don’t tell him what he needs to know. “WHERE IS MY CAT?!!?” I take him up to see Smudge. Apparently, Tony’s been knocking at the door a lot, but always in the after-school hours when I’m at the office. He’s convinced himself that one of two things is happening. Either I’ve left town and abandoned “his” cat to death by starvation, or I’ve been so busy torturing the kitten that I can’t be bothered with answering the door. As he heads off to school, Tony gives me a suspicious look and vows to return and check up on Smudge again. Next time he brings that other boy Jill met on the street, Jerald. They’re a study in contrasts, these cousins. Tony comes on all tough and street-smart, but he never tries to hide his undying love for every last creature in the animal kingdom. Jerald is quieter, more thoughtful, but once he settles in, he unveils a sense of humor that’s surprisingly sharp and insightfully wicked. Ironically, Smudge flees under the bed in terror whenever these two

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Sage & Nest.pdf

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visit. But Jerald and Tony always make Jill and I laugh. Soon enough, the boys catch on to the fact that they’re welcome at our house pretty much anytime, even if we don’t have any idea at this point who their mothers are.

mudge arrived on September 26, 2000. In the years since, I’ve often joked about writing a children’s book called The Cat Who Saved the Neighborhood. It’d tell a wildly exaggerated version of the chapter in our lives sparked by Jill’s encounter with those two boys and their box full of kitten. The 2800 block of Pelham Avenue is a pretty typical slice of workingclass Baltimore. Located along Belair Road in the northeast part of the city, it’s got two long stretches of rowhouses, forty-five apiece, facing each other across a narrow one-way street. Our former house stands smack dab in the middle. It’s a good-looking block, if you can look past the half-dozen or so abandoned houses, and the dozen or so others in need of a little TLC. Belair-Edison may not rank as the safest neighborhood in the city, or the cleanest, but it’s not the most dangerous or the dirtiest either. Look again, you’ll see: Most houses are pretty nice. They sell for sweet prices. And one of the city’s best-kept secrets, Herring Run Park, is right around the corner. The people living here are mostly black, with a good number of whites and a few Hispanics and Asians sprinkled in. The block is chock-full of children—three, four, sometimes more to a house. My first Halloween on

Looking back, it’s as if we climbed aboard a runaway train full of kids and projects: new planters, plugging rat holes, block newsletters, speed-bump petitions, mediation sessions with nightmarish neighbors. Pelham, I think I dropped $40 on emergency runs to Rite Aid while trying to keep pace with the parade of vampires, princesses, and sullen teenagers. Many of these kids are growing up old-school style, not so different from the way I grew up in the late 1960s and early ’70s: Within the confines of their block, they’re allowed to fly solo for hours at a stretch before returning home to tackle schoolwork and chores. There’s not much of the hyper-vigilant oversight and every-second-counts scheduling that seem to be the way of the parenting world these days. Before Smudge came along, I’d been on Pelham for five years, Jill for two. Our life there at the outset was as normal as could be. We’d wave to folks and trade small talk. We knew a few names. It was all quite neighborly, never more dramatically so than the night Mark Saunders sprinted out of his house across the street from ours in the wee hours to tackle a fleeing-on-foot drunk driver who’d just trashed several parked cars, including ours. After Smudge, everything changed. Looking back, it’s as if we climbed aboard a runaway train full of neighbor kids and block projects. The sequence went like this: Jerald and Tony started bringing friends over. Those friends brought their friends over. Other kids started lurking outside, worried they might be missing out on some fun or, better yet, free junk food. Then some adult neighbors from a nearby block decided to do something nice for the kids of the larger community by putting on a free basketball tournament. They roped us in and rounded up some grant money. That’s how we got to know the folks at Belair-Edison Neighborhoods, Inc. (BENI), the community revitalization nonprofit that w w w. u r b a n i t e b a l t i m o re . c o m d e c e m b e r 0 7

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ADORNMENT

runs the Healthy Neighborhoods Initiative in Belair-Edison. This initiative seeks to stem the tide of neighborhood decline by intervening early in a downward cycle, trying to stabilize things before they turn irreversibly bad. It encourages homeowners to invest in properties and organize blocks, offering everything from cheap home-improvement loans to technical assistance and small grants. BENI also strives to bring new homeowners into the neighborhood. It’s a worthwhile program, and we worked with our neighbors to take advantage of it. The folks at BENI helped us make that basketball tournament an annual affair. They got us supplies for a monthly series of alley cleanups and assisted with the occasional “Dumpster Day” so folks could clear out basements and garages. They even got us a grant to buy more than fifty new porch lights; almost all of these were installed over one exhausting weekend by volunteer teams of block residents, each a mix of kids and adults. The list of projects we tackled in partnership with our neighbors goes on and on: new planters, plugging rat holes, block newsletters, speedbump petitions, mediation sessions with nightmarish neighbors, craft projects for kids. Our block even won its fifteen minutes of fame, landing on the front page of the Hartford Courant, which sent a reporter down from Connecticut to see what was happening on Pelham when that city was getting ready to launch a version of Healthy Neighborhoods. Friends and family outside Belair-Edison were amused by the sudden transformation in our lives; my sarcastic sister in Chicago took to dubbing our abode “The House of Hope.” But what’s important to me about our time on Pelham is not so much what we did but how we got started doing it. Neither Jill nor I was born with an extra dose of do-gooder genes. Neither of us acted out of a burning desire to advance one cause of social justice or another. We did what we did because a gaggle of funny, sweet, upstanding kids barged into our house and took a liking to us. We liked them, too, and in that exchange these kids managed to pry open a new space in our lives, one we’d never before imagined we might have the time, energy, or inclination to occupy. After that, well, one thing led to another.

wo questions lie at the bottom line here. First, did we make a difference for our neighborhood? Second, did our do-goodering do any good for us, personally? That second question is the easy one, leading as it does to myriad anecdotes that never fail to make me smile. Start with Tony’s ninth birthday party, a spur-of-the-moment affair conceived by Jill, who has a gift for devising simple ways to engage kids. This bash offered slices of ice cream sandwich topped with candles, nothing more. Our guests—Tony, Jerald, Cecil, and Gumper—responded to this gesture like they’d died and gone to heaven. They put on a hip-hop dance show in the backyard that left all six of us rolling on the lawn in laughter. A couple of days later, we were on the front porch when a woman walked by and thanked us for giving her son some ice cream. We misunderstood this exchange at first, thinking that Yolanda Frazier was Tony’s mother when she was actually Jerald’s mother, but it marked the start of a special friendship nonetheless. The next time Tony came over, he brought his older brother, Aki, who sauntered in looking even more streetwise than Tony. I’ve always wondered whether Tony’s mother sent the older boy over to check up on the couple who was giving her son the run of their house. We played on the computer that day, visiting Pokémon websites and such. Then Tony wrote a letter to his father, who was in jail at the time. He described in detail the various cats, frogs, and crickets under his care at that moment. He promised to grow up strong so he could buy his father a car. “I hope you come home one special day. Love, your son Tony.” Aki wrote this poem: “Thank you Ma for a roof over my head. Thank you Ma for a comfortable bed. Thank you Ma for loving me. Thank you Ma

for hugging me. Thank you Ma for all your kisses. Thank you Ma for all the things you do. Don’t never forget I love you.” Over the years aboard that runaway train, Jerald probably came over more often than any other kid on the block. Jill and I were both working full-time at home for most of this stretch, and he’d roll in mid-afternoon seeking help with homework and trying to scam us out of junk food. Together, he and I learned about tsunamis, Harriet Tubman, Eratosthenes, and other stuff. After one of these homework sessions, Jerald turned to me with a very serious expression on his face. Then he said, “Mr. Jim, I just want you to know that when I’m over here with you and Miss Jill, it feels like I’m with family.” I blinked back tears. Then I told Jerald that the feeling was mutual. I also told him what a kind and brave thing he’d done, sharing his feelings with me out of the blue like that. That’s the way things went on the old block sometimes. Kids found their way to something true, then grabbed us by the hand and led us right up to it. I hope it worked the other way around once or twice, and it makes me proud to say that I’m pretty sure it did. Another day comes to mind, this one dawning with the block buried w w w. u r b a n i t e b a l t i m o re . c o m d e c e m b e r 0 7

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under a foot of snow. In the work-at-home world, there are no snow days, so I was already at my computer when a joyous chanting noise erupted from the porch outside our front door, courtesy of a trio of middleschool girls. “MISTER JEEIM! MISS JEEILL! AIN’T YOU GONNA COME OUT AND PLAY?” Jill beckoned Ashley and her twin sisters, Sandra and Stasia, inside. After she fed them breakfast, the five of us blew almost all that long day sledding and snowball fighting and tromping through the park and drinking hot chocolate. From the get-go, there seemed to be a special bond between Jill and Ashley. Partly, this was because Ashley’s smile is such an infectious display of deep-felt joy. Partly, this was because no one on the block—kid or adult—was more devoted to our clean-up-the-trash efforts than Ashley. She and her sisters even won prestigious “Golden Pushbroom” awards at a neighborhood festival once. I asked Jill recently if she had any theories as to why she and Ashley hit it off like that. She talked about how touched she was by the way Ashley would alternate between shy, uncertain girl and young woman going places, full of fire and smarts and leadership skills. Thinking about this now, I wonder if maybe there wasn’t a reflection of ourselves in Ashley. As far removed as we were from middle school, weren’t we striving to make a comparable transition, from low-key neighbors to leaders on our block? Weren’t we fighting doubts about our abilities and striving to gain confidence, too? The best day of the year in our old house always landed on the Saturday before Halloween. That’s when we’d throw Jill’s annual pumpkin-carving party. We usually bought at least twenty-five

Two questions lie at the bottom line here. First, did we make a difference for our neighborhood? Second, did our do-goodering do any good for us? pumpkins in preparation for this affair, which the kids loved almost as much as we did. In my mind’s eye, these pumpkin parties all run together as one, serving up a parade of characters I wish I had the space to write about here: T.J. and Nicholas; Lakeira and Shantera; Mitch; Davon; Devon and Jimmy; China; Kendra; Tyree and Tyrell; Donita and Waynette; Chantae and Chatell; Shamora; and the unforgettable Lamont, aka Boo Man. On those Saturdays before Halloween, you should have seen our porch come dusk, lined up end to end with shimmering pumpkins and laughing children.

n late 2004, Jill and I moved out of Belair-Edison, chasing an impulse to try small-town life and landing in Cambridge, on the Eastern Shore. Our new house isn’t the kid-magnet our old one was, but we try to contribute to our new community in other ways. So, yes, our do-goodering continues, despite the fact that we’ve learned over the years what an aggravation such work can be. It’s a pain to look at your calendar and see too many meetings and obligations on the horizon. It’s inevitable that in striving to work together with neighbors, you’ll encounter a few obstinate characters, and it’s always a bitter disappointment when too few volunteers show up, or too few donations come in. continued on page 95 w w w. u r b a n i t e b a l t i m o re . c o m d e c e m b e r 0 7

the philanthropistâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s toolkit

Golden age: Jennifer Kozak and Talib Horne represent a new model of local philanthropy.

urbanite december 07

B Y

L I O N E L

PH OTOGRAPHY

F O S T E R JASON

OKUTAKE

think giving is just for rich people? think again

By her own admission, 40-year-old Ellicott City native Jennifer Kozak did not come from a family that gave away a lot of money. Born in what was then a rural part of Howard County, she spent her childhood without the convenience of an air conditioner or a clothes dryer. Today she lives in Towson and runs her own graphic design firm, yet even as she and her husband, Steve, make regular contributions to their children’s college funds, they clip coupons and drive a Volvo that’s seen over 200,000 miles. Because Kozak is not male, wealthy, or retired, hers might not be the profile that springs to mind when you think about what a philanthropist looks like. But she belongs to an organization that has awarded more than $1 million to seventy-seven charities in the Baltimore area. Kozak is a member of the Baltimore Women’s Giving Circle. The group was formed in 2001 with fifty-two members and now boasts a network of 304 local women. All women are welcome, and while there are no official statistics on the age or occupation of circle members, cochair Lynn Sassin guesses that they range in age from the mid-thirties to mid-seventies and knows members from a diverse range of professions including law, marketing, education, and business. There are at least four hundred such organizations around the country, all based on a simple structure: Each member makes a donation, which is then pooled to form a fund from which the group can award grants to causes of their choosing. The Baltimore Women’s Giving Circle members contribute a tax-deductible $1,100 annually, $100 of which goes to cover administrative costs. The rest of the money becomes part of the annual allotment available for disbursement. The circle’s grants committee

reviews proposals, conducts site visits, and makes recommendations on which groups should receive funding. There is also a strong social and educational component: The circle regularly invites speakers with firsthand experience in such issues as economic development, the working poor, and the economic health of women. The rise of the giving circle may be a relatively new philanthropic phenomenon, but the generosity it harnesses is not. In 2006, American households gave a record $295 billion to charity. In 2005, Americans’ individual charitable contributions were equal to 1.7 percent of the country’s GDP—a greater proportion than any nation in the world, according to the UK-based Charities Aid Foundation. (The next closest was Britain, at approximately 0.73 percent.) This giving funds most degree-conferring colleges and universities, 80 percent of which are nonprofit, and 70 percent of American hospitals. Perhaps surprisingly, total contributions from individuals outstrip business contributions by a ratio of seventeen to one. Of the $222 billion in individual contributions in 2006, the socalled mega-gifts—such as billionaire investor Warren Buffett’s $37 billion donation to the Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation—make the most headlines. But while wealthy people give larger sums, people with the most modest incomes typically match or outdo their wealthy counterparts in terms of how great a proportion of their income they donate. When social scientists graph income on one axis and charitable donation as a percentage of income on the other, it creates a U-shaped curve, with the line falling through the low-tomiddle income groups before rising again among the wealthy. The Baltimore-area nonprofit sector is particularly strong. One of the top thirty U.S. foundations by asset size is in Baltimore City

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Charitable Thoughts Exploring Different Ways of Giving Investigate Giving circles are one way of making your financial contribution go further. Here are two resources that can help you find other outlets. RealityCharity.com—often called “the eBay of giving”—provides a direct link between you and charitable causes. People and organizations in approximately fifty countries can sign up and solicit donations directly. The site cannot guarantee the legitimacy of any posted cause. Those soliciting funds can volunteer to undergo an identity check, but it is still advisable to do your own homework. Locally, the Association of Baltimore Area Grantmaker’s website (www. abagmd.org) provides news on philanthropic organizations throughout the state and country, including ABAG executive director Betsy Nelson’s Charitable Giving column, which appears biweekly in the Daily Record. Know Your Beneficiary There are a number of tools available for gauging the credibility, viability, and financial strength of a nonprofit organization. The Internal Revenue Service’s Form 990 is the primary financial reporting form for nonprofit organizations, the equivalent of a corporation’s tax return. Guidestar.com provides access to Form 990 for 1.7 million nonprofits around the country at no cost. The Maryland Association of Nonprofits (www.marylandnonprofits.org) issues its Seal of Excellence to Maryland not-for-profit organizations that meet fifty-five criteria across eight areas of operation, including governance, disclosure, and financial accountability. Nationally, Charitynavigator.org has developed its own four-star rating system for evaluating more than five thousand of the best-known nonprofits. —L.F.

(Annie E. Casey Foundation, $3.3 billion) and a second is in Baltimore County (The Harry and Jeanette Weinberg Foundation, Inc., $2.2 billion). The Maryland Association of Nonprofit Organizations, with offices two blocks east of M&T Bank Stadium, is one of the largest organizations of its kind in the country, providing technical assistance to several hundred nonprofits annually. The Association of Baltimore Area Grantmakers is one of only thirty-two regional grantmaker associations in the country. Baltimore has nearly 4,000 nonprofit organizations—among them, a large number of universities and hospitals—that, in 2005, employed nearly a quarter (23.75 percent) of its workers. Yet despite the considerable breadth of the nonprofit sector and its donor base, in recent years it became obvious to organizations like the Washington, D.C.-based Forum of Regional Associations of Grantmakers (FRAG) that, because many groups are underrepresented on donor lists, the country was missing out on the impact of potentially billions more in charitable aid. “Almost 100 years ago, wealthy white men like Ford, Carnegie and Rockefeller forged the foundation of organized philanthropy,” the forum states on its website. “The faces of giving changed along with the way they give. Women and people of color are using new ways of giving to get billions of dollars directly where needed.” In 1998, FRAG, with support from a number of national foundations, invested $14 million in its New Ventures in Philanthropy Initiative, with the goal of promoting giving among underrepresented groups, including women and racial and ethnic minorities. The money and mission of New Ventures shaped forty-one community-giving projects across the country, including the Association of Baltimore Area Grantmakers’ Baltimore Giving Project. The

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Baltimore Women’s Giving Circle developed from the Baltimore Giving Project’s goal of creating, growing, and sustaining giving circles. The rapid growth of giving circles—most were founded since 2000—may be due to the fact that they allow different combinations of cultures, institutions, and motivations to complement each other. In many instances, giving circles are one of many charitable investment tools offered by a local community foundation. Charitable foundations take their cues from nineteenthcentury industrialists like Andrew Carnegie, who was among the first to found one: They have a board of directors and manage large sums of money, which they distribute in the form of grants. Private foundations do not solicit funds themselves; instead, they distribute money on behalf of a person, family, or corporation. Community foundations are trusted with the cash and assets, donated within a person’s lifetime or as part of the estate, of multiple donors to fund projects within a particular geographic area. While it is not unusual for wealthy families or individuals to endow their own fund within a community foundation in lieu of incurring the costs of establishing their own foundation, giving circles cast a wider net by allowing numerous members with relatively small contributions to, essentially, become co-principals of their own grant-writing fund. “Giving circles definitely represent the democratization of philanthropy,” says Daria Teutonico, director of New Ventures in Philanthropy at FRAG, “but some community foundations use their knowledge of community needs and their knowledge of making grants to help giving circles grow and develop.” But it’s not just about money. “I was attracted to the idea of meeting a new set of impressive, educated women and learning

about a set of needs that I didn’t know about,” says Kozak, who sits on her circle’s grants committee. She and fellow committee members review proposals, conduct site visits, and recommend projects to fund. Like many other new-breed philanthropists, she wants to touch the buildings and talk to the people that her money will support. Her spring months, when the grants committee conducts much of its business, tend to be busy, but she likes the fact that she can step aside if things get too hectic. “You can be as involved as you want to be,” she says, and the work will still go on. The giving circle concept is also flexible enough to accommodate different cultural nuances. As FRAG notes, “African Americans have always given informally but generously to mutual-aid societies, their churches and members of the community in need.” These totals, like the billions of dollars in remittances flowing from host countries like the United States to migrant workers’ families around the world, haven’t always registered in official charity tallies, but as more minorities shape giving-circle priorities to their own interests and needs, it seems likely that their contributions will receive greater notice. Another local giving circle exemplifies this potential. Thirtysix-year-old Talib Horne is a founding member of the Change Fund, a group of young, African American professionals, under the umbrella of the Association of Black Charities. Horne’s motivation for becoming involved in a giving circle was deeply personal and developed as a result of his experience living in three different sections of the African diaspora: He was born in Philadelphia, then, from age 7 to 11, lived in Liberia and Swaziland, where his mother worked as a missionary for the National Baptist Convention. “We continued on page 97

Hey, Big Spender Five Philanthropists Who Changed Baltimore George Peabody Year gift made: 1857 Amount: $1,400,000 Amount in 2006 dollars: $30,175,000 Massachusetts-born banker George Peabody, considered by some to be the founder of modern philanthropy, left behind libraries, lecture halls, art galleries, museums, church buildings, and housing projects; the charitable foundations he set up in England and the United States were among the first such institutions of their kind. In Baltimore, where he lived for twenty years, he gave $1.4 million to found the country’s first academy of music, the Peabody Institute.

Johns Hopkins Year gift made: 1876 Amount: $7,000,000 Amount in 2006 dollars: $132,015,625 The Quaker wholesaler and financier from Anne Arundel County was at one time the largest stockholder in the young Baltimore & Ohio Railroad and chairman of the B&O’s finance committee for eighteen years. Never married, the $7 million he left for the founding of a hospital and university was the largest act of private philanthropy up to that time. Enoch Pratt Year gift made: 1882 Amount: $1,145,833 Amount in 2006 dollars: $23,845,187 Born in Massachusetts, Enoch Pratt is said to have arrived in Baltimore at 23 with only $150. That same year, he founded the wholesale iron house Pratt & Keith. He was president of National Farmers and Planters’ Bank for thirty-six years and a director for another twenty-four before assigning more than $1 million for the building of Baltimore’s free public library system. Zanvyl Krieger Years gifts made: 1970s–2000 Amount: Est. $100,000,000 Amount in 2006 dollars: $187,306,021 Local businessman/entrepreneur Krieger, a member of the family that owned the Gunther Brewery, was instrumental in the founding of both the Orioles and the Colts during the 1950s and later donated several huge gifts to his alma mater, Johns Hopkins. In addition to the Krieger Mind/Brain Institute, the Krieger Children’s Eye Center at the Wilmer Eye Institute, and the Kennedy Krieger Institute pediatric hospital, the university’s School of Arts & Sciences bears his name, testament to a $50 million challenge grant he gave in 1992. Sidney Kimmel Year gift made: 2001 Amount: $150,000,000 Amount in 2006 dollars: $170,769,666 Founder and chairman of the board of Jones Apparel Group (owners of Jones New York, Nine West, and other clothing and apparel lines), Philadelphia businessman Sidney Kimmel’s $150 million donation to Johns Hopkins’ cancer research and patient care efforts represents the largest gift in the school’s history. The Johns Hopkins Oncology Center was renamed the Sidney Kimmel Comprehensive Cancer Center at Johns Hopkins in 2001. —L.F., with research assistance from intern Harrison Brazier

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fiction

The Age of Shiva C H A P T E R by

M A N I L

pho t o gr a ph

Manil Suri’s first novel, The Death of Vishnu, was published in 2001, to great popular and critical acclaim: It was chosen as a finalist for the 2002 PEN/ Faulkner Award for Fiction and won the 2001 Barnes & Noble Discover Award. A mathematician and professor at the University of Maryland, Baltimore County, Suri wrote Vishnu as the first part of a planned trilogy exploring Hindu mythology through the lives of ordinary people, against the backdrop of India’s emergence from the end of colonial rule. The second novel in the series, The Age of Shiva, introduces Meera, a feisty and sensual teenager who makes an impetuous mistake resulting in a hasty marriage to Dev, her sister’s former beau. Following Indian custom, Meera moves into her husband’s family home. Although she has escaped the shadow of her domineering father, Meera soon learns her life journey will become a battle for personal and intellectual independence. The Age of Shiva will be published in February. Suri will read from the novel at UMBC’s Dresher Center for the Humanities on February 5 at 7 p.m., followed by an author chat and book signing at the Ivy Bookshop in Mount Washington on February 9, from 2 p.m. to 4 p.m. —Susan McCallum-Smith

SU R I

L I N DA

C O N N OR

he electricity was out on Dev’s street. “It’s gone for the night,” Hema announced cheerfully. “We’re one of the first ones they cut when the city runs out of power.” She held a lit match under a candle to soften its base, then stuck it upright on the arm of a chair. “We’re just a government colony, after all, not like the wealthy area where your father has his house.” I sat perched on a charpoy in the only bedroom in the flat, the long gunghat of my sari draped over my face like a veil. It was difficult to maintain the pose Dev’s mother had taught me—the sagging of the charpoy ropes kept threatening to topple me. But the position felt as centering as a yoga asana— by concentrating on keeping steady on the bed, I was able to take my mind off the despair closing in on me. “You can speak now, you know, even take your gunghat off. All the guests have gone. Though you’ll have to show your face sooner or later—all those people who’ve been saying it’s your sister who’s the prettier one.” Hema held up a candle near my head, filling the inside of my gunghat with light and trying to peer through. “Besides, you must be dying under there—not being used to having the fans all off. Tell me, is it true—Dev bhaiyya said you had an air conditioner at your house?” w w w. u r b a n i t e b a l t i m o re . c o m d e c e m b e r 0 7

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We had two, one in the drawing room, and one in Paji’s library, but I remained silent. “Well, you at least had lots of servants, didn’t you? Dev bhaiyya said your father made a lot of money as a publisher. Not that we don’t have servants, mind you. Well, maybe not a servant exactly, but we do have a ganga—she comes in to clean the pots. No cook, though. Don’t worry, we won’t make you work. Not while you’re a new bahu, anyway. When Sandhya didi was a new bahu, just married to Arya bhaiyya, she didn’t have to step into our kitchen even once for the first month. Now Mataji makes her do all the cooking, of course—though between you and me, her rice clumps so much the ganga could do it better. I suppose we shouldn’t expect you to be good either, being a rich man’s girl and everything. I’ve already told my parents. When I get married, it’s going to be to the wealthiest man they can find. Marry for comfort, that’s what I want, not for love like you. Tell me though, is it true what you two did in the tomb? They were quite outraged, the Muslims, they’re saying you defiled the grave. Even the stationmaster, Mr. Ahmed, said it was an insult to one of their Muslim saints.” I kept my gaze focused at my feet, willing my body to be absolutely still. Sweat trickled down my face and neck under the gunghat, but I didn’t draw it back or take it off. “You can tell me, I promise not to repeat it to anyone. Pushpa down the street says that you both were naked.” Hema giggled. “Were you really? Babuji was called into Mr. Ahmed’s office, you know. Given quite a firing.” “Hema, stop bothering the bahu,” Dev’s mother called out from the other room. “You’ve lit the candles, now come out here.” Hema dropped her voice to a whisper. “Even Arya bhaiyya was upset. He said Babuji should never have agreed to the marriage. He called you”— again, Hema giggled—“a tramp. He said your sister was trying to mesmerize his brother, was doing magic on him, and casting tantric spells. And when that didn’t work, the family set you instead upon poor Dev bhaiyya.” Hema’s eyes widened. “Do you really know magic? Will you teach me your tricks?” “Hema,” my mother-in-law called again. “Stop that Dehradun Express tongue of yours and come right out.” “Coming, Mataji. But it was Dev bhaiyya who stood up for you. He was so kind, so brave. He said he felt pity for you—that it was his duty to marry you—if he didn’t, your reputation was so ruined that nobody else would. He’s always been the softhearted one—lets everyone take advantage of him. Anyway, we’ll talk more tomorrow. Tonight this room is yours. Arya bhaiyya and Sandhya didi are sleeping with us in the other room, even though he’s the elder brother. It’s going to be tight. Plus all that rich wedding food must have given Didi gas again, and on top of that, she snores.” Hema fluffed up a pillow and laid it at my feet. “You have such pretty toes. But I guess that’s what new brides are supposed to have, at least in the beginning. I’m sure my bhaiyya will be very impressed.” She skipped to the door. “Enjoy this special night of yours.” I kept waiting on the bed after Hema left. At some point, I took the gunghat off, but the claus-

For an instant, as I squeezed past with my sheet gathered tightly around, I thought he was going to reach out and grab my arm. trophobia from the doli was not dispelled. Beyond the glow of the candle, the walls strained and tilted against the darkness, as if raring to come up and immure me. Pieces of furniture rose ponderously from the corners, their silhouettes radiating unspoken hostility. The moon seemed to have fallen victim to the blackout as well—only darkness filtered in through the bars of the window. Perhaps I actually dozed off in my asana. The blast of a locomotive whistle jolted me awake. A train was thundering by on the tracks outside, so close that I expected a bogey to come crashing through the wall. Rectangles of light blazed through the room from its windows, like a series of camera flashes, lighting up a cupboard, a dressing table, picture frames, and, standing in his wedding garments just inside the doorway, Dev. “Sorry it took so long,” he said, as he tried closing the door. Strings of marigolds hung up for the wedding kept getting in the way. “They wouldn’t let me leave.” He scrunched the door shut over the marigolds, launching a flurry of petals into the air. “I hope Hema didn’t fill your head with too many of her tales. Don’t listen to anything she says.” I lowered my eyes and remained silent. Wasn’t that the way a new bahu was supposed to behave? What choice did I have now anyway, except to try and ignore what Hema said? Perhaps I should slip the gunghat back over my head to look more bride-like, to be more traditional by covering the parting of my hair. “What a long day,” Dev said, and began unwinding the silk band tied in a turban around his head. More petals, pink and red this time from the wedding ceremony, fell to the floor from its brocaded folds. He unbuttoned his tunic and pulled it off as well. “Are you as exhausted as I am?” I nodded my head without looking up. How strange that as a bride I was expected not to meet eyes with Dev. To not call him by name. Wasn’t it just yesterday that we had eaten pineapple at Chandni Chowk, that I had been making jokes to his face? How little time I had spent with him since then. And now he was my husband, the man to whom I had been wed. My link to this house, this family, the trains clattering outside, the reason I sat perched on this bed. My head swam. How could my games have led to such enormous change? “Aren’t you going to take off your sari?” Dev asked, sitting beside me and running his fingers down its hem. He picked up a corner of the sari and playfully uncovered my blouse. There was something cheering about his proximity, surprisingly, something reassuring about being finally alone with him. I allowed my

gaze to rise to the level of his chin. His neck was the color of honey in the candlelight, there were no forgotten streaks of makeup tonight. The cotton of his undershirt cut swaths of white over his shoulders. I felt an urge to run my hand under the material, feel my fingertips separate cloth from skin. For a moment, we were back in the tomb of Salim Fazl. Anthers nodding provocatively in the dark corners of the room, corollas unfurling to form giant flowers. Then Dev kissed me. It took me a few seconds to recognize the sugary odor of alcohol in his mouth. When I was seven, there had been a period when Paji staggered home late every night, when he always seemed to have that same odor on his breath. I stiffened and shifted towards the lower edge of the bed. “Vijay uncle brought along a bottle of whiskey. It was only a sip—I had to, for politeness’ sake.” I sat in silence, remembering Biji’s anger towards Paji, her recriminations and threats. Dev tried to touch my shoulder, but I eased it out of the way. “Tell me, have you ever slept on a charpoy before?” he asked after a moment of silence. I shook my head sullenly. They were only good enough for servants where I came from, I felt like retorting. “Let me show you something then.” I looked in bewilderment out of the corner of my eye as Dev started bobbing up and down on the bed. “Arya bhaiyya and I used to do this in the charpoy we shared when we were small. Sometimes we’d set Hema in the center and try to launch her into the air.” He began bouncing more vigorously, and I wondered how drunk he was. “It’s better without the mattress, though—here, let me take it out.” Dev pulled out the mattress from under us and threw it on the floor. The wooden frame creaked in protest as he pitched himself against the bare ropes. “We’d sometimes stand up and use it as a trampoline, but that never worked. I don’t know how many beatings we got from Babuji for breaking the ropes.” It was such an incongruous sight that despite myself, I began to laugh. My husband, the bouncing groom. Could I have married a boy at heart? Surely life shouldn’t be too awful with someone as playful as that. Dev started laughing as well. “You can do it too, you know, from the other end.” He cheered in encouragement as I joined in. Was this what marriage was about, bouncing together on the bed? “Press down each time I go up,” he instructed, and I felt our rebounds increase in strength. With each surge, something else got dislodged and fell away from my thoughts—Hema, the doli, the whiskey, the marriage ceremony. I started feeling buoyant and carefree, as if I was w w w. u r b a n i t e b a l t i m o re . c o m d e c e m b e r 0 7

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back with Sharmila on the seesaws we used to ride in Rawalpindi at the midsummer fair. Then I missed my cue and descended when I should have risen. The motion sent me toppling into Dev’s arms. I was still laughing when I realized he had pulled me free of my blouse. My breasts spilled out against his chest, and he raised me up to take the left one in his mouth. It was a shock to look down and see my flesh encircled by his lips. My body had never been handled with such a casual sense of ownership before. I tried to lean backwards to pull myself out, but Dev was holding me too tight. I felt him suck my nipple, felt his tongue lap clumsily over my skin. Then he let go to grab the other breast and taste that as well. “Meera,” Dev said, and I was careful not to let the dismay rise to my face. “How long I’ve wanted . . .” He began pulling out the sari from around my waist, throwing it to the ground in great handfuls, like wrapping paper torn off a wedding present. He lay me flat on the charpoy and worked my petticoat off. His hardness pressed against me in several spots, like a finger testing the ripeness of a fruit. Then he entered me. That day in the tomb, the day the warmth had sprung up and risen from between my legs, I had become aware of another sensation. A deep-rooted craving, a hidden emptiness, that had opened up in the same part of my body. Now, the thought that first flashed through my mind was that this emptiness was going to be filled. That this nameless yearning would be appeased, that waves of satiation would radiate everywhere else. What spread through me, however, the instant I felt Dev inside, was not satiation but pain. Pain so unexpected, pain so vivid, that I squeezed his shoulders and arched my pelvis away to be free of it. Perhaps Dev mistook this reaction for pleasure, because he licked his tongue across my neck. “Meera,” he whispered, and rose until he was almost out, then plunged back deeper in. I tried once again to shrink away, but the ropes beneath me prevented my escape. “Meera,” Dev gasped, as he thrashed over me again and again. The charpoy began bucking to a new rhythm as its ropes cut into my skin. Afterwards, he flopped onto the charpoy next to mine. “You’re so wonderful,” he said. “I can hardly believe you’re mine. You look like your sister in so many ways, and yet you seem so much simpler inside.” He kissed me on the forehead and blew the candle out. I stared at the night hanging outside the window. There was still no moon in sight. I felt the sting of rope burns on my back and remembered my mattress still lay on the floor somewhere. Did I have the energy to drag it back myself or should I ask Dev for help? He lay quite still next to me, his face turned towards the ceiling. “Don’t you wonder what she’s doing right now?” he murmured. “Roopa. Whether she’ll be happy with the life she’s chosen or think she’s made a mistake?” He remained on his back for some moments, then turned over on his side.

“Everyone knows the bride isn’t supposed to return to her father’s house for three months,” she declared. I awoke bathed in light,

and thought for an instant it was day, that I had survived the night. But then I saw the naked bulb in the ceiling shining in my face—the electricity had come back on at some point. Dev lay sprawled out on his stomach next to me, his mouth resting open on his hand, as though preparing to bite a knuckle in his sleep. A table fan whirred from a stool in the corner, twisting its head methodically from side to side like someone performing a neck exercise. Through the window, a railway station had materialized in the distance, its empty platforms glowing with a ghostly fluorescence. There was a dark spot of blood on the petticoat I had put back on. My cheeks burned with embarrassment when I saw it. What if Dev had noticed it as well? I remembered the first time it had happened. “Pay attention, because I’ll only show you once,” I heard Biji say as she tore off a piece from an old pajama and led me to the toilet. Why tonight, when it wasn’t the right time of the month? I got up to clean myself. Wrapping the sheet like a shawl over my blouse, I crept through the darkened room next to ours. Hema was snoring on a mattress near the outer door, but I was able to open it enough to just squeeze by. There was still no moon, but enough illumination from the street now for the dirt ground within the courtyard walls to gleam a peculiar yellow. An extra charpoy rested stacked against a wall, next to a hand-cranked pump, and the wooden post where Hema said they had once kept a cow tethered. The toilet was built in one corner, a short cement stall raised three steps above the ground. An old cockroach, its wings bedraggled, shuffled into a crack next to the footrests when I turned on the light. Under a tap in the wall stood an empty tin of cooking oil, its top cut open so it could serve as a mug. A faint smell of phenol hovered in the air, trying vainly to conceal the underlying reek of waste. I squatted and washed myself, then my petticoat, as best I could. There was less blood than I thought—could it have been an injury received during the sexual act? I opened the door and stepped into the fresh air. Was this something recurrent one had to endure? Standing at the bottom of the steps, his undershirt gleaming in the night, was Dev. I looked at him in surprise. “I just went to . . .” I began to say, then stopped. The shadows on his face were thicker, the pattern of muscle more pronounced. The shoulders sprouted tufts of hair. Arya stared at the sheet that barely covered my blouse, at the wetness that blossomed down my petticoat. He took a step towards me, his jaw

set in a line, his eyes devoid of expression. For an instant, as I squeezed past with my sheet gathered tightly around, I thought he was going to reach out and grab my arm. But he stayed where he was, not stepping aside to make my passage easier, but not making a move to impede me, either. My heart beating, I returned to the bedroom and turned off the light. I thought I heard the sound of the gate to the street being opened and closed. I kept listening for Arya’s footsteps in the adjoining room, but he didn’t return. I arranged my petticoat loosely over my legs so that the fan could blow on it. When I awoke again, to the receding call of a train, the dampness was gone.

For the next few days

both my dowry and I were on display. Early the first morning, Hema burst into the room, saying that the handcart pushers from the factory had arrived with the refrigerator Paji had sent. After several absurd attempts to push it through the tiny kitchen opening, Arya had the men set it down in the living room instead. Mataji lit incense to welcome it, as she would a new member of the household, Babuji broke a coconut at its feet, and Arya marked a red holy mark with vermilion on its forehead. Dev’s family had asked for a Kelvinator fridge, but Paji had refused to pay for a foreign brand, saying it would be an Indian-made Godrej and nothing else. Ardeshir Godrej had become famous by finding a way to make soap out of vegetable oil instead of the animal tallow so offensive to many Hindus. His brother had expanded the company rapidly after Independence, branching to talcums and toiletries, large steel cupboards, and very recently, appliances. The fridge Paji had managed to procure was a prototype, not even available for general sale as yet. “I hope they had the sense to get at least the important parts from England,” Babuji remarked, as he peered skeptically into the freezer. Hema went up and down the block, announcing to everyone that the fridge (the first one in the colony) had finally been delivered. Somewhat spitefully, she even told the stationmaster’s family next door that henceforth, they would be able to ask for ice at any time they wanted. At one point, fifteen neighbors (mostly children) were milling around in the living room, gawking at Hema playing with the compartments and trays and knobs. The crowd lost interest somewhat when they found out that the ice cubes Hema had promised might not be ready for several hours. One of them continued on page 99 w w w. u r b a n i t e b a l t i m o re . c o m d e c e m b e r 0 7

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b y m i k e d o m i n e l l i

An Open Book

photography by anne gummerson

The Pratt library replaces a bunker with color, light, and glass

urbanite december 07

The Broadway Branch of the Enoch Pratt Free Library

looked like it was designed to withstand a siege. It hunkered down with solid brown brick walls facing the street, menacing for such a small building. The “Believe” banners hanging from it seemed more threatening than encouraging. One might walk by it for years without seeing the door, or even realizing it was a library—a reflection of the architectural attitude of 1970, the year it was built. “At that point, people felt that libraries didn’t need to be that open to the public,” says David Benn of the Baltimore-based architecture firm Cho Benn Holback. “So soon after the riots, everything was more closed.” The library that Benn designed to replace this structure, which opened this September a few blocks west at Orleans Street and Central Avenue, is a very different story. “We wanted the library to be inviting and open,” says Roswell Encina, the Pratt’s director of communications. “We wanted to move away from looking like a prison. The Orleans Street Branch couldn’t be more opposite.” Benn has, as he says, “turned the fortress inside out.” The building is the result of a deal struck between Johns Hopkins Medicine and the Pratt in 2005. When the medical complex’s recent East Side building boom reached the Broadway branch, Hopkins offered to build a brand-new library building nearby if the Pratt gave up the Broadway branch site in the Dunbar-Broadway neighborhood. (Hopkins’ new four-story residence building for oncology patients and their families is under construction now.) The architecture of this stretch of Orleans Street is brutal, but not landmarkable Brutalist. Rushing by, the traveler notices the fast food restaurant, the power plant, and the three public housing projects. Most will miss the hidden Art Deco gem of Dunbar Middle School, the high-style Italianate former Eastern Female High School, and the WPA-style bas-relief sculpture adorning the public housing. But it’s impossible not to notice the new library. “It’s a billboard to entice people in,” says Benn. The Central Avenue façade, where the entrance is located, is a simple yet welcoming composition of brick and glass, while the Orleans Street side is a startling, block-long matrix of primary-colored rectangles floating above a glass first floor, as bright and playful as a wall of Legos or a Piet Mondrian painting. (Benn compares the design to a shelf of library books.) Set on sad Orleans Street, it is indeed enticing—“modern, but friendly and community-oriented,” Benn says. “The colors make the building interesting compared to its surroundings. And at night, the glass makes it become a beacon.” The building is in step with the movement toward energy efficiency in new construction, with ample natural light provided by windows with varying specialized coatings designed to minimize glare and regulate heat gain. Storm water from the parking lot is managed with a rain garden, and the exterior walls of the reading room are covered by Trespa panels, which are made of both rapidly renewable raw materials and recycled materials. The building is significant in its divergence from the unfortunate attempt at contextualism that Baltimore so often embraces—the placement of brick veneer over buildings that are grossly out of scale or proportion. Giving a power station or high-rise parking garage a skin of brick falsework does not make it blend with the historic rowhouses around it. The Orleans Branch is truly contextual, in the way of the Mercer Street façade of Aldo Rossi’s Scholastic Building in New York: Its height, rhythm, and massing are almost identical to that of the row of houses that were torn down decades ago on this site. The library does not imitate or caricaturize the lost set of rowhouses; rather, in its similarity to them, the building harmonizes with its surroundings. The excitement the building generates on its Orleans Street side does not continue around the corner to its Central Avenue façade. Here the low-slung glass, metal, and mass of brick has a suburban feel,

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Beyond the stacks: The Orleans Street Branch has a children’s story room, meeting and quiet study areas, and a 25-computer technology training center.

and the large parking lot—mostly empty—seems out of place in a neighborhood where 76 percent of households do not have cars. From Central Avenue, the building, single-story and set back from its property lines, does not contribute to a coherent urban streetscape. Rather, it reclines back on its lot. But given the Pratt’s space requirements and the size of the lot, a lack of density was unavoidable. The building sits toward the middle of its lot, true, but it sits there with arms open toward Central Avenue, calling to pedestrians with its glass, its wide stairs, and its landscaping. Too often, an urban building of such low density will crouch down on its lot, protected from the people it is supposed to serve by barriers of fencing and sod. Better to recline, as the Orleans Street branch does, than to hunker, as did its predecessor on Broadway. Genuinely innovative architecture in new construction exists in Baltimore—anyone tempted to believe that the greatest city in America has no new architecture of note need only walk four blocks south and look at Gerry’s Tire Service, the wellcrafted, spare but warm little building designed by ArchPlan. But innovation is rare, especially in public

projects. Recent proposals solicited by the Baltimore Development Corporation for streetscaping and infill structures on Pratt Street may produce something interesting, but in general there are not many opportunities in the city to create, say, a building

The building sits with arms open toward Central Avenue, calling to pedestrians with its glass, its wide stairs, and its landscaping. along the lines of MICA’s crystalline Brown Center or the Sugar House at the Frederick Douglass-Isaac Myers Maritime Park. Such architecture requires land (not encumbered by history), community need, and money. The happy confluence of these requisites at the Orleans Branch has given the Pratt system its thirdlargest library, at 15,000 square feet and 18,000 volumes, which the Pratt defines as books, magazines,

newspapers, CDs, and DVDs. Printed books are only part of the library’s programming, reflecting recent and drastic changes in the role of libraries. “Fifty years ago, people came to the library only to check out books, or to research things in books,” says Encina. “Now people come to use our computers, to use our Internet connection, for our children’s programming, for our adult classes, and for our readings.” The Orleans Branch has free Wi-Fi as well, a feature that will eventually be incorporated in all of the Pratt’s buildings. “We’re very aware of the technology changes,” says Encina. These shifts in media consumption have caused a change in the philosophy of libraries, and in their design. Modern libraries “engage the community as consumers rather than passive users of a book,” says Benn. At the Orleans Street Branch, this strategy—and the building that expresses it—appear to be successful; the circulation of the branch has doubled since it moved. “It’s a sign,” says Benn, “that the friendliness is pulling people in.” ■ —Mike Dominelli is a building restoration engineer living in Butcher’s Hill.

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e care is exercised in the preparation of finished art to avoid errors of any kind. BEVEL DESIGN INC., however, cannot be or omissions in finished art overlooked by the client. BEVEL DESIGN INC. assumes no responsibility for non-compliance with s, or for conflict with the rights of third parties in connection with trademarks, designs, copyright or unfair competition. If changes de, please indicate by written memorandum. If no changes are to be made, please sign where indicated. Help Baltimore City

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food

Recipe for success: The Dogwood team gathers in the restuarant’s dining room. From left to right: apprentice and kitchen manager Tyrone Lewis, apprentice Johnnie Brown, Dogwood co-owner and chef Galen Sampson, deli manager Tonya Thomas, apprentice Jennifer Brock, apprentice Lou Gershen, co-owner Bridget Sampson, and apprentice Arthur Ruby Jr.

which can range in length from twelve to eighteen months, trains folks in transition from addiction, incarceration, and/or homelessness in all aspects of restaurant work, from front-of-the-house management to knife skills. According to the Sampsons, graduates of the program get a free restaurant education equivalent to the one doled out at the Culinary Institute of America, where Galen (a former Harbor Court Hotel executive chef) was trained. “We wanted to help change the lives of people in difficult situations,” explains Bridget. “And the restaurant business is a great training school on so many levels.” The couple hopes to be approved for full nonprofit status for both the training program and the restaurant by the end of 2007. Their goal is to be 85 percent sustainable—that is, relying on few to no grants—by 2010. The sharing of the apprentices’ stories is part of Fellowship Night, a monthly event at which parishioners of St. Ignatius Church (where the Sampsons are members) meet at Dogwood for a dinner prepared and served by the apprentices. On the buffet laid out on the bar, a giant bowl of salad greens purchased on a class trip to the Waverly Farmers’ Market sits next to a tureen of mild-

flavored vegetable chili full of chickpeas. Rounding out the meal are fluttering wings of farfalle pasta mixed with sliced chicken breast, red peppers, and onions. “We bought things that were beautiful,” Brock says of the shopping trip—her first visit to a farmers’ market. This evening, the full plates and easy chatter translate into a show of moral support for both the Sampsons and the apprentices. It demonstrates the celebratory and redemptive nature of making food, the way that breaking bread forges relationships— themes that run through the program in small ways, from the class discussion of the film Babette’s Feast to the cooking advice Galen gives in class that could double as life lessons. “If you don’t have a good foundation, you won’t have good cuisine,” he says in the classroom one afternoon as he explains the concept of mirepoix, the combination of carrots, onion, and celery that forms the basis of a stock. A soft-spoken, heavyfeatured man, he urges his students to take the time to do a job properly: “If you don’t solve it in the beginning, you’ll have to deal with it later.” Later, Bridget tells me, “Galen has said, ‘I’d rather create this program than be a renowned chef.’”

During Fellowship Night, the class stumbles over the French names of the chefs they’ve studied (for Escoffier, “think lingerie,” jokes Gershen) and recounts recent trips to One Straw Farm—to see how organic produce is grown—and to Springfield Farms—to visit the hogs that come to the restaurant as bacon and pork loins. At one point, Ruby, an intense young man who’s been clean for more than six years, offers this observation: “I always wondered why people prayed before meals. And when I asked people why, [they said] they prayed for the food, the farmers, the land.” Visiting the farms, he continues, helped him put his “thoughts and well wishes behind the prayers. It helped me appreciate where it all comes from.” Many of the members of St. Ignatius plan to get involved in the Sampsons’ program by teaching, tutoring, or even building a website. Kathleen Haser, executive director of the Jesuit Volunteer Corps East, hopes to send her volunteers here. “I completely believe in what Bridget and Galen are doing, and I’ve been following them for a long time,” she says over orange juice and salad. “They would be excellent mentors.” Although what the Sampsons are doing is, on some levels, very basic—providing skills and jobs w w w. u r b a n i t e b a l t i m o re . c o m d e c e m b e r 0 7

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food

Recipe

Andrew’s Bouillabaisse, served with a Rouille Crostini (Andrew Weinzirl is Dogwood’s sous chef.)

Deglaze with Pernod and saffron. Add fume to cover. Bring to boil, then turn heat down to a gentle simmer. Simmer for an hour. Crush with a whisk or potato masher, then strain.

For the fish stock (fume):

Dogwood co-owners Bridget and Galen Sampson

to people who are without them—their vision goes beyond teaching how to review an invoice or seat a customer. In addition to their relationship with St. Ignatius, the couple is creating a web of supportive connections with other nonprofit agencies. The Center for Fathers, Families, and Workforce Development sponsors a three-week “job readiness boot camp” for prospective Dogwood apprentices called STRIVE, and the Franciscan Center and the Christopher Place Employment Academy will be the recipients of meals prepared by the apprentices. The strongest connection, however, may be among the apprentices themselves. Because many of them have fought or are fighting addiction, they are well prepared to understand each other’s struggles. “[The other] apprentices want to know how many meetings I go to, whether I have a sponsor,” explains Brock. “It’s good to have people who care about me.” After the Fellowship dinner, the apprentices reflect on the purpose of the evening. “We’re making the meal and serving the meal. It’s the right thing to do,” says Gershen. “It’s a new way of thinking for me, as opposed to the other way, when I would ask ‘What am I going to get?’” According to Ruby, “It’s really about maintaining hope, the karmic well wishes that people give towards the program. When I’m here, I’m thinking ahead about people who will be here, the people that are in jail now. And when they walk in here for the first time, I want to be here.” Brock casts the evening in a distinctly personal and philosophical light. “This is like a spiritual experience to me—to be around normal people who see what I’ve been and who I am, and will stick around to see what I become.” ■ —Mary K. Zajac wrote about Maryland winemaking in October.

6 lbs fish bones with heads (Dogwood suggests grouper) 1¾ gallons cold water 4 ounces diced onion 2 ounces diced celery 2 ounces diced leek 1 ounce butter 2 cups Chablis wine 1 bay leaf 1 oz curly parsley ¼ oz fresh thyme

Yield: 8 to 10 servings Rouille for the crostini: 2 egg yolks 3 cloves garlic 1 teaspoon saffron 1 tablespoon roasted red pepper ½ cup olive oil ½ cup vegetable oil

Clean bones and heads in cold running water. Break the large bones. Remove any black skin, blood clots, and gills. Saute mirepoix (the onion, celery, and leek) and aromatics (herbs) in butter. Cover and let sweat in their own juices. Add fish bones, cover, and sweat for a few minutes. Add white wine and cover with cold water. Bring to a slow boil and reduce to a simmer. Simmer uncovered for up to 45 minutes. Pass through a fine strainer, cool, and refrigerate.

Combine first four ingredients in a food processor and blend. Slowly add oils to emulsify. Yield: 8 to 10 servings To prepare one serving of bouillabaisse: 2 clams 3 shrimp—peeled and deveined 3 tubes calamari 3 oz lump crabmeat 2 purple fingerling potatoes, quartered ¼ cup equal parts leek and fennel, julienned 2 cups broth

Yield: 1½ gallons of stock For the broth: 3 Roma tomatoes, chopped ½ red onion, medium diced 1 leek, julienned 1 bulb fennel, julienned 2 stalks of celery 2 red peppers, roasted and medium diced 3 cloves of garlic, sliced 1 tablespoon orange zest 1 cup anisette (Pernod) Fume—enough to cover 1 tablespoon saffron

In a large round pan, bring broth to a simmer. Add the potatoes, shrimp, clams, and calamari and cover. Simmer until clams open up and shrimp is cooked through.

Sweat onion, leek, fennel, celery, peppers, garlic in olive oil until tender. Add tomatoes and zest.

To serve: In a large bowl, pile the potatoes and shellfish in the middle. Ladle the broth over the mixture. Garnish with crabmeat and julienned leeks and fennel. Smother grilled slice of baguette with rouille.

w w w. u r b a n i t e b a l t i m o re . c o m d e c e m b e r 0 7

urbanite december 07

reviewed

photo by La Kaye Mbah

Joung Kak

Smoke gets in your eyes: Korean-style tabletop grilling at Joung Kak

“A feast for the senses” is an overused and inexact phrase, one that could fairly describe a long-distance bus ride, a Michael Bay movie, or an afternoon of lawn care. Nevertheless, it’s hard not to invoke the notion when you sit down to Korean-style tabletop barbecue at Joung Kak. This Koreatown spot near North Avenue has long been known as the premier local practitioner of this unique culinary experience, a fiery in-your-face rite of smoke and meat. (A newer neighboring rival, Nak Won, offers it as well.) The 20th Street location is as gloomy as ever, especially on dark winter evenings (park in the adjoining lot—a closed-circuit camera broadcast on the dining room TV keeps an eye on your car), but once inside, things are blaringly bright and cheerful. Soon there’s an iron pot of flaming hardwood charcoal glowing in the middle of your table and an icy Hite beer in your hand. The extensive menu contains, in the words of Joung Kak’s eccentrically written website, “items only understood by chosen few”—i.e., enough burbling offalintensive hot pots to keep an adventurous eater busy for weeks. But if you’re like most of the patrons, you’re here to grill some meat. Or, rather, sit back and nibble on the profusion

of panchan—little bowls of pickled kimchi, seaweed salads, fish-cake shreds, addictive chile-drenched fresh cucumber, and other treats—while waitresses tend the blaze a few inches from your face, laying strips of thinly sliced beef, short rib, pork, chicken, and shrimp over the grill and tonging over cooked morsels every few minutes. The meat goes straight from the grill to a pillow of steamed rice on a fresh lettuce leaf, then gets dressed with a slice of raw garlic and explosively hot peppers, a spoonful of bright-red soybean-chili sauce, and whatever else is handy. Then you wrap it up, devour, and repeat. In an hour or so, the coals are burned to embers, the platter of raw meat is empty, and the feast is concluded. With a crowd (Joung Kak is popular with both families and late-night drinkers; it’s open until 4 a.m.), the experience is a hoot; the sheer multiplicity of flavors is exhilarating. Your senses, and everything else, will be sated. (Lunch and dinner daily. 18 W. 20th St.; 410-837-5231; http://pages.areaguides.com/dining/joung. htm) —David Dudley

Cinghiale well-drilled in their regional offerings: Don’t ask for more olive oil unless you are interested in the principles of biodynamic agriculture, and a confab with the sommelier is more like a continuing-ed course on Italian winemaking. Despite all this showboating, the kitchen is all about Italian simplicity. There’s a fine, unadorned fritto misto of eggplant, red peppers, and zucchini—hot, crisp, and greaseless—and triumphantly accurate spaghetti alla vongole—a fist-sized ball of thin pasta wound around briny clams, oil, parsley, and pepper. A snowy fillet of John Dory is accompanied by the barest of sides, fresh figs sliced on a trim bruschetta, and even the menu’s richest offering—maialino, or roast suckling pig—maintains its demure proportions: It’s a modest porky cube, capped by a good half-inch of jiggly fat and skin. (Too bad that thimbleful of glossy reduction is inedibly salty.) The dainty portions allow Americans with sufficient time and funding to pack away a proper multi-course Italian dinner. But if you prefer pushing away from the table in a carbo-garlic haze after a night out in Little Italy, your meatball awaits a few blocks away. (Lunch Mon–Fri, dinner Mon– Sat. 822 Lancaster St.; 410-547-8282; www. cinghiale-osteria.com) —D.D.

photo by La Kaye Mbah

Restaurateur power couple Tony Foreman and chef Cindy Wolf, owners of the Spanishthemed Pazo and the Roland Park bistro Petit Louis, continue their march across Western Europe with Cinghiale, an Inner Harbor East exercise in serious Northern Italian that opened to great expectations in late September, across the street from their flagship restaurant, Charleston. It feels like a calculated move, berthing their big-budget Italian battle cruiser beside the red-sauce enclave of Little Italy. Cinghiale can already make a plausible claim to serving the area’s best Italian eats, with barely a tomato in sight. The room—antiqued marble floors, magnificent mirror-trimmed bar, vintage ceiling fans lazily swishing the climatecontrolled air—has an air of opera-set unreality: It’s a trattoria times ten, too huge to be intimate, but lavishly detailed. The bar side serves as the more informal “enoteca,” with booths and cocktail tables and platters of cold antipasti flanking a salumeria station for slicing prosciutto straight from the limb, while the “osteria” side bathes diners settling in for their three-hour feast in perhaps the city’s most flattering indoor lighting. Cinghiale (Italian for “boar”) seems to be aimed at readers who inhaled Heat, writer Bill Buford’s bestselling account of his obsessive apprenticeship to chef Mario Batali and all things lustily Tuscan. The waitstaff have been

High on the hog: Prosciutto is sliced to order at Cinghiale.

w w w. u r b a n i t e b a l t i m o re . c o m d e c e m b e r 0 7

Rotary International 87th Annual

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Oyster Roast & Silent Auction Saturday, January 5th, 2008 12 P.M. to 4 P.M. Located at the 5th Regiment Armory 29th Division Street, Baltimore, MD Ticket price is $45 at the door

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urbanite december 07

posed by co-artistic director Jackie Dempsey and performed by a band on stage, with the video backdrop as well as performances by three local dance companies. “Each production is specific to that place,” Dempsey says, “but it’s also more abstractly about a sense of place.” Featured in the production is an interview with jazz singer Ruby Glover, filmed just days before her death in October. Later this month, between Boxing Day and Twelfth Night (mark your calendars, Anglophiles!), The Pantolites will present a “pantomime” version of Puss in Boots—a tradition (one that has nothing to do with Marcel Marceau) for all ages with roots in Commedia

MUSIC

Ian Nagoski—musician, record store owner, and amateur ethBy David Dudley nomusicologist—spent three years assembling Black Mirror: Reflections in Global Musics, a twenty-four track compilation on Atlanta’s Dust-to-Digital records. Zany and heartbreaking, it’s a time capsule of singular sounds plucked from the 78 RPM record’s pre-war heyday—there’s a frenzied Uilleann piper, Chinese opera, lush Indian movie music, and a sweet-voiced 10-year-old Finnish boy with a zither singing Socialist poetry. But Nagoski wasn’t drawn to sheer musical oddity. “People engage in all sorts of bizarre musical behaviors, but that wasn’t what I wanted to get across,” he says. “All of this was music I thought was just jaw-droppingly beautiful.” If there’s any unifying theme, it’s the peculiar intensity of these performances, many of which capture subcultures that didn’t survive the twentieth century. A rousing Lemko wedding song roars along with klezmer momentum, the musicians—members of an

ART

Through December 21 at By Jack Livingston McDaniel College’s Esther Prangley Rice Gallery, Baltimore-based artist and MICA educator Michelle La Perrière presents Amalgam (loss and celebration), an exhibition that explores the cyclical nature of life. During La Perrière’s early to midforties, a number of people close to the artist died tragically, including two of her family members. In the following years, she created a succession of revelatory works in memo-

dell’arte. The stylized production of Brunyate’s adaptation will feature James Kinstle, artistic director of the Baltimore Shakespeare Festival, as Widow Weptalot, the traditional dame in drag.

oppressed Carpathian ethnic group expelled from Poland after World War II—oblivious to their fate; when a 1927 practitioner of Serbian gusle music howls his nationalist verse, you can almost smell the Balkan bloodshed. (Slobodan Milosevic, Nagoski notes, was a big gusle fan.) Nagoski tracked down native speakers of dying dialects in an effort to discover what, exactly, these people were singing so passionately about. But, he says, that background isn’t as important as the communion with the past the voices offer. “Not speaking the language, you can still appreciate what it takes to create the performance,” he says. “There’s that moment when the needle drops and the sound comes out and fills the space—your ear understands that this is a person.” (Available at the True Vine Record Shop, 1123 W. 36th St., 419-235-4500, or from Dust-toDigital, P.O. Box 54743, Atlanta, GA, 30308-0743, www.dust-digital.com)

riam to those lost. In 2005, La Perrière accepted an invitation to attend the Jentel Artist Residency in Wyoming. Under the influence of pending motherhood (her daughter was born less than six weeks after her return) and the healing environment of the mountain retreat, she produced a breakthrough series of spacious monoprints on paper. Infused with quiet atmospheric images (many from nature) amid delicate color washes, the pieces revel in mindful connection, fluidity, and acceptance. Upon her return, La Perrière enhanced the series by hand. This cinematic suite, titled “Prayers (in memory and joy),” is the centerpiece of La Perrière’s current exhibition, a show universal in topic and profound in sensibility.

image from the suite Prayers (in memory and joy)

This month, Theatre Project sets By Martha Thomas out to fill two grievous gaps in Baltimore’s cultural portfolio. First, if you believe the people at Squonk, our city needs an opera, and the Pittsburgh-based theater company, which rose rapidly from its rust-belt birthplace to Broadway, is happy to provide. Second, if you heed Roger Brunyate, artistic director of the Peabody Opera, you’ll realize that we’re ripe for a holiday tradition somewhat more localized than Disney on Ice. His answer is a homegrown version of a raucous British tradition: the pantomime, a play generally based on a children’s fairy tale that includes stock characters, music, and lots of shouting from the audience. Squonk’s Baltimore: The Opera is a multimedia show featuring videotaped footage of local folks and noteworthy sites around town. The company has used this format in Albany, Pittsburgh, and Orange, N.J., among other places. Regionalized lyrics are worked into songs com-

THEATER

photo of Baltimore: The Opera by Larry Rippel

recommended

w w w. u r b a n i t e b a l t i m o re . c o m d e c e m b e r 0 7

I filmed my own sex tape and â&#x20AC;&#x153;accidentallyâ&#x20AC;? sent it to everyone.

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urbanite december 07

recommended

literature By Susan McCallum-Smith

Ten years after our arrival, my husband and I are eligible to become citizens of the United States. I’ve lived here long enough to puncture some of my more cockamamie notions, but I still dream of the idea of America. A glorious idea encompassing Monument Valley, Shaft, freedom of speech, Calamity Jane, Nordstrom’s shoe department, and, now, Millard Kaufman. Kaufman is 90 years old and has just published his first novel, Bowl of Cherries. This tardy entry into fiction is forgivable; he’s been a busy man. Raised in Baltimore and a graduate of Johns Hopkins, Kaufman fought with the Marines in the D-Day landings, co-created Mr. Magoo, and is an Oscar-nominated screenwriter. Bowl of Cherries is narrated by wunderkind Judd Breslau, who finds himself, after a series of ludicrous misadventures, awaiting execution by “ganching” (don’t ask) in the fictional Iraqi province of Assama. “The jail is a shithouse, and that’s not a metaphor,” says Breslau. “It is fashioned, like all the public buildings and private dwellings in the capital, of human excrement.” Breslau has become embroiled in the race to uncover the secret agglutinate that holds Assama’s shit, sorry, Assama’s architecture together. This dusty corner of the Middle East is threatened by unwelcome attention from “the banner-bearers of enterprise, the gogetters, the carpetbaggers, the leeches, the loan sharks, the hucksters, of everything from shit to Shinola.” Bowl of Cherries whip-cracks along, the plotty nonsense forgivable due to Kaufman’s acrobatic prose and eccentric characters, whose filibustering often takes the form of accidental profundity: “We live in Hamlet times,” one says, about the catastrophic meddlings of America, in “a new ice age of self-doubt and indecision.” Nathan McCall, author of the controversial memoir Makes Me Wanna Holler: A Young Black Man in America, wouldn’t argue with that. His first novel, Them, examines the life of Barlowe Reed, a 40-year-old African American who believes every United We Stand bumper sticker is a hypocritical symbol of how far we haven’t come. Barlowe lives with his hot-headed nephew, Tyrone, in Atlanta’s Old Fourth Ward, the birthplace and final resting place of Martin Luther King Jr. The Fourth Ward once boasted

the “richest negro street in the world,” and although the neighborhood has fallen into disrepair, it “seemed to finger-pop to its own soulful tune,” and has a main street that Barlowe finds damned near perfect: “You could buy groceries, get your teeth fixed or cop a vial of crack cocaine; you could get discount life insurance … take in a foot-stomping church service … and attend to your banking needs; you could get a seven-dollar haircut, a good game of nine-ball and a back-alley blow job, all on the same block.” His community pride is shattered when a white couple moves in next door. Gentrification has arrived on his doorstep; “them crackers” are coming, and nothing will ever be the same. The white couple, Sean and Sandy Gilmore, has decided to “go black,” as their realtor so crudely puts it, due to economic necessity and a deliberate attempt to integrate. But when Sean endures resentful stares during a walk one Sunday afternoon—“Sean could actually feel his whiteness”—and returns home, frightened and angry, Sandy remarks that “now we know how it feels being a suspect all the time.” Sandy and Barlowe strike up an unlikely and thorny friendship. As community tension builds, they bicker over the back fence, trying to move beyond “too much water under the bridge.” Despite McCall’s admirable, if occasionally clunky, effort, Them is a missed opportunity. Even though Barlowe and Sandy are forced to face their own prejudices, their conversations never move beyond pat misunderstandings. McCall fails to hunker down deep into the risky, chewy issue of race and find the words to articulate what his characters can’t. Australian illustrator Shaun Tan, on the other hand, has produced an instant classic without using any words at all. This jaded reviewer is hopelessly smitten by The Arrival, his graphic novel about migration. His exquisite drawings, four years in the making, tease the boundaries of a child’s imagination while stretching the tale-spinning muscles of an adult’s. A man leaves his homeland to find a better life. His wife and child stay behind, stalked by a nameless terror—its tail switching—until he can save enough money for their passage. Upon his arrival in a new world, in a port akin to Manhattan anchored by hazy twin statues

bridged by a handshake, he is hurled into the disorienting maelstrom of the immigrant experience. He walks the streets, baffled by bizarre architecture, whimsical creatures, and fantastical vegetables, and struck dumb by his inability to communicate in a language as indecipherable as hieroglyphics. While searching for work and assailed by loneliness and doubt, he meets other immigrants who share their stories of persecution, exile, and joy. Tan is a genius at marking time. A year passes, sketched by the seeding, budding, blooming, and decomposing of a single flower. The monotonous sea passage is clocked by clouds that take on magical formations in the reader’s gaze. This perfect holiday gift is bookended by passport-sized sketches of men, women, and children of different ethnicities and nationalities, whose eyes reflect the commingling of heartbreak and hope felt on the threshold of arrival. One day, years ago, my husband and I had our own photos taken, joining all those who came before us, looking for America. ■

w w w. u r b a n i t e b a l t i m o re . c o m d e c e m b e r 0 7

DEN' S ounge

fine dining • live music • cocktails • dancing • ambiance

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Some things are meant to be seen

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urbanite december 07

Will Work for Change continued from page 57 Ultimately, nonprofits need to realize we have more in common than differences. We should be working together, rooting out groups that are not doing good things. If we don’t regulate ourselves, we’ll be regulated by the feds. We can be so much more of a powerful force—economically, socially, and politically—and that’s going to take a different attitude. It can’t be, “Get more money to keep the machine running,” which is what we’ve got now. We shouldn’t go into the political process to be part of it, but because we want to cure the political problem. It’s naïve. It’s crazy. It’s not in the system’s nature to spontaneously recreate itself. But democracy is not pretty, man. Sometimes you have to bite, scratch, and claw. That’s what we have to do. A nonprofit sector that’s built on the independence of charities and the people they deal with will help create a different America.

Kennedy and King assassinations. During those same forty years—since the advent of the War on Poverty—we’ve seen there are still many, many people who say that if you’re poor, it’s your fault: “I might give you a little money or a little food. Other than that, you’re on your own.” But we can’t afford poverty. We can’t afford two million people in prison and eighty million people getting old. If consumers outnumber producers, you get social chaos. We can’t have people squaring off against each other. What’s going to happen to groups that help immigrants when old Boomers say, “No, no, no—we want our money first”? Boomers have a huge role to play in changing how we view each other. Will they play that role? We’ll see.

Boomers are getting ready to bust into old age. Presumably, they’ll spend more time volunteering or getting into charity work. What kind of opportunity does this present the nonprofit sector with?

There’s a racial conundrum in nonprofits. Many charity leaders are white, while the people they serve often are not. Is there a way to be charitable without the hint of condescension that some see permeating the sector?

You’ll need to keep old people alive longer and they’ll be more expensive to keep. I believe there’s an 80 percent chance that Boomers will consume much more than they produce and tank the economy for their children and grandchildren. That’s the unhappy side of it. But my hope is that we can bring the Boomers back to social activism. Our grandparents gave up their youth to create the America we’ve enjoyed. My generation has never been asked to sacrifice like they did. Will the Boomers have their moment of greatness, like their grandparents did, and can nonprofits help get them there? I think there’s a 20 percent shot that that’ll happen, and that’s why I do this. For forty years, this generation has been wandering in the wilderness, trying to make its way in the world after suffering the great wounds of the

Holiday Greetings

The nonproﬁt sector needs to be liberated intellectually. It’s desperately stuck as far as ideas go.

Being pure and charitable— screw that. Instead, I want to see an “independence sector” where people can do for themselves. The sector needs to be liberated intellectually. It’s desperately stuck as far as ideas go. That’s why it is losing young people and people of color as potential employees and leaders. It isn’t because we haven’t reached out to them. It’s that we’re not going anywhere. And they know it. ■ —Freelance writer Michael Anft is a regular contributor to The Chronicle of Philanthropy and a senior writer at Johns Hopkins Magazine. His essay “Why We Left” appeared in the November Urbanite.

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The Building Block continued from page 65

We had our share of this back on Pelham Avenue, but they fill only a small space in our memories. The old block is still a part of our lives. Jerald’s mother, Yolanda, started renting our old house after we moved out. Earlier this year, she finished cobbling together a down payment and bought the place from us. Jerald’s bedroom is my old office, the room where we used to do homework together. Last summer, Yolanda brought Tony and Jerald down to the Shore for a weekend of kayaking, barbecuing, and laughing. Smudge spent most of that weekend hiding under the bed. Tony went home with a captured frog to add to his menagerie, which is as big as ever. It was a great feeling, hearing the sound of their laughter fill our new house. Shortly thereafter, I got the chance to write this essay, and so I’ve been thinking a lot about Belair-Edison. In doing so, I’ve found myself struggling with that other question, the one about whether our dogoodering did any lasting good for our block. The truth is, there were still a handful of abandoned houses on Pelham when we left. There was still too much trash and too many rats. Sometimes I read in the paper about do-gooders in other communities who accomplish unfathomable things with their young neighbors. They teach skills like photography and filmmaking and get kids’ work displayed in galleries and theaters. They start academic support programs that push kids through high school and toward college. By those standards, our efforts on Pelham don’t really rate. If the city had tracked the progress of our block according to some strict CitiStat statistical evaluation of crime, grime, and delinquency, would we have passed? I don’t know, actually. I do know we made our share of blunders. The first time we convened a block-wide meeting, we were armed with pastries for thirty. Three people showed up. (Jerald’s eyes got real big at the sight of all those leftovers.) That mediation session with a problem neighbor? A pointless affair, serving only to fuel the fires of resentment right up until the last minute, when our neighbor Robert Jones saved the day by stepping up, asking everyone to join hands, and closing it out with a heartfelt prayer that sent all parties home feeling like their petitions were respected. One Sunday a few weeks ago, I returned to Pelham Avenue to pick up Jerald and take him to a Ravens game. He’s in his first year of high school today, so he’s much less a boy and much more a young man in the making. On the ride downtown, I tried to explain to Jerald how I’d been struggling with the notion of measuring what, if anything, we accomplished together in the good old days. He’s always been a guy who thinks things through carefully, so I expected Jerald to pause and ponder before tackling such a serious question. Instead, he spun on me quickly with a look that might even have betrayed a touch of anger: “C’mon, Mr. Jim! You know better than that!” Deep down, I suppose I do. Here, too, it helps to seek refuge in anecdotes. For instance, that reporter from Hartford interviewed Robert Jones and his wife, Annie. On Pelham, it’s tough keeping up with the Joneses. Their yard is always a little bit tidier than yours, their flowers a little bit prettier. These are proud people and ideal neighbors, so it felt good to hear that reporter say that, when she asked the Joneses to identify the secret of our block’s success in the Healthy Neighborhoods program, Mr. Jones pointed at our house and said, “They are.” Then there was that exhausting weekend of the porch-light project. I have no idea whether replacing all those broken-down fixtures deterred crime, like it was supposed to. But I do know that the night we finished, the most dedicated of our adult partners in that job, Henry Thompson,

broke down and cried while pulling his car into the block. He banged on our door shortly thereafter, telling Jill he just had to talk with somebody about how overwhelming it was to see our block lit up like that in a display of togetherness and shared commitment to safety. Such moments have a way of lodging in your heart for keeps. And such moments have a way of informing the decisions you make moving forward in life. So shortly after we arrived in Cambridge, Jill started volunteering with our local chapter of Habitat for Humanity. We both signed up with a group that helps promote the revitalization of downtown. And I’m working with folks who are trying to preserve and celebrate Cambridge’s incredible African American history. Don’t misunderstand: We don’t rank as the most active or the most generous members of our new community. But it feels like we’re doing our part. And one of the main reasons we’re doing it is because of that surprising space those kids on Pelham Avenue opened up in our lives. It didn’t close back up when we left the block. All these years later, one thing is still leading to another. ■ —Freelance writer Jim Duffy lives in Cambridge, Maryland.

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The Philanthropist’s Toolkit continued from page 69

didn’t have running water, electricity, or anything like that,” he explains of his first two years in Liberia. “I saw extreme poverty there. Some people in America don’t have hope, but they don’t realize how bad it can be.” Horne moved to Baltimore as a teenager before attending St. Mary’s College in Southern Maryland. Since earning a bachelor of arts degree (with a double major in economics and political science), he’s spent his entire career working for nonprofit organizations, but after several years he questioned whether he was doing enough. The idea of forming a giving circle started as a conversation among friends. “One of the things we asked ourselves was, as young African American professionals, what are we doing to help our community?” he says. “A lot of our initial conversation was about the time we’re putting in, i.e., sitting on boards, working with nonprofit organizations, working with churches, stuff like that. But then we started asking, Is it enough to give time or should we also give some resources? Then we asked ourselves, would it make sense for us just to give resources individually, or to pool our resources together to give more?” Five members started the circle in 2002 with annual deposits of $250. To date they’ve given $6,000 to six nonprofit groups, all with a focus on advancing opportunities for African American and other minority youth in Baltimore. Even though he’s held leadership positions in nonprofit organizations for the past eight years, Horne credits his involvement with the Change Fund with helping him feel like he was truly making a difference. “There’s a line I always use,” he explains. “‘What you tolerate, you authorize to exist.’ That was our focus. We can’t just sit here and do nothing. We can’t just talk about all the ills in Baltimore. We have to do something about it. That’s what guides me in everything I do.” —Lionel Foster is Urbanite’s editorial assistant.

Check, Please Four Places to Give Locally Baltimore Community Foundation 2 E. Read St., 9th Floor 410-332-4171 www.bcf.org Established: 1972 Major service areas: education, arts, neighborhoods, human services, and the environment, among others Overhead Costs: 8.2% The Baltimore Community Foundation (BCF) is a charitable foundation that helps donors direct funds to nonprofit organizations improving quality of life in the Baltimore area. Last year BCF coordinated the distribution of gifts totaling $29 million to more than two hundred groups. BCF serves as the administrative headquarters for more than five hundred charitable funds and scholarships, including the B’More Fund, Quality of Life, and Baltimore Women’s giving circles. Associated Catholic Charities, Inc. 320 Cathedral St. 410-547-5490 www.catholiccharities-md.org Established: 1923 Major service areas: poor and homeless populations, children and seniors, the developmentally disabled Overhead Costs: 12.6% Associated Catholic Charities, Inc. (ACC), also known as Catholic Charities of the Archdiocese of Baltimore, serves 160,000 people each year through approximately eighty programs. ACC’s facilities include My Sister’s Place for homeless women and children, nineteen senior housing facilities, and the new Our Daily Bread Employment Center in downtown Baltimore. Center Stage 700 N. Calvert St. 410-986-4000 www.centerstage.org Established: 1963 Major service areas: arts and culture Overhead Costs: 19.1% It might not leap to mind when you think “charity,” but Center Stage, the State Theater of Maryland, is the largest nonprofit professional theater company in Baltimore. Each season, the theater hosts 100,000 people while pricing tickets to reach as broad and inclusive an audience as possible. In addition to its performances, Center Stage offers student workshops, teacher trainings, internships, and after-school programs for children and adults interested in theater arts. Fuel Fund of Maryland Established: 1981 Major service area: home energy for financially at-risk families Overhead Costs: 13.4% The Fuel Fund of Maryland provides electricity, heating oil, and gas to 18,000 financially vulnerable families in Central Maryland annually. Target families have incomes at or below 200 percent of the Federal Poverty Guidelines. In addition to giving via check or credit card, BGE customers can automatically donate the difference between their monthly bill and the next dollar to the Fuel Fund by signing up for the Penny Round Up program. —L.F.

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The Age of Shiva continued from page 75

tried to climb the shelves to get at the freezer, at which point Babuji used an umbrella to swat them away. By teatime, the radiogram had been delivered as well. The enormous cabinet housing the components was made of a fine-grained wood stained so dark it was almost black. Mataji declared the color inauspicious, and suggested painting it something more cheery, like red. Hema wanted to alert the neighbors again, but wasn’t able to tear herself from the gramophone, on which she kept playing the same film record over and over again. She hadn’t listened to it for two years, ever since the family gramophone had broken, she explained. Babuji seemed taken at first by the multiple shortwave channels of the radio and the glow of the tubes inside. Later, however, he complained to Arya that they could have repaired the gramophone, that the old radio had been just fine. “It’s mostly wood, this radiogram—why didn’t we ask for more money instead?” Me, they exhibited mostly in the bedroom. Each morning, Mataji selected the sari and jewelry set I was to wear that day, from the dowry chest I had brought with me. She was the one who orchestrated the viewings, making sure my gunghat was in position before the visitors entered, smiling proudly when they commented on the beauty of my ornaments (and, just as often, me). “Truly, Dev has brought Lakshmi to your house,” the women said, and a few reached out to appraise the heft of the gold in my bracelet or the size of the jewels in my necklace (one of them even pretending to brush back my hair in place so she could get a better look at my earrings). “Such full cheeks. Such nice eyes. And not too dark-complexioned, just right.” The questions they asked me were like those one might put to a child—what was my name, where did I come from, how I liked it in Nizamuddin. Afterwards, Mataji led them on a tour of the refrigerator and the radiogram and the kitchen utensils, tantalizing them with the myriad feats of magic reputedly possible with the pressure cooker (another first for the colony, this time imported in its entirety from England). “All we really wanted was Meera, but look how they insisted, look how they’ve given us so much,” she said. It was good that there was so much activity those first days in my in-laws’ house, since it prevented me from steeping in regret every waking moment. Mataji must have understood what I was going through, because she quickly started introducing chores into my day. She would notice me staring balefully at Dev as he sat down to his evening liquor with Babuji and Arya, and quickly pull out a soda water bottle from the fridge. “Tell them to roll it over their foreheads before they open it. The way Babuji keeps grumbling about the fridge—it will remind him how warm his drinks were before you came.” Every time I entered the toilet and braced myself for a cockroach to scramble over my feet or whir into my face (“The old one’s Shyamu,”

Hadn’t Paji been the one, after all, with the final say in my marriage, the one who had ultimately said yes?

Hema informed me. “You can kill the ones that fly, but not him”), I thought back fondly to the clean white tiles of bathrooms past. I smelled rich curries and Basmati biryanis each evening as I tried to plow through the clods of Sandhya’s rice on my plate. The sound of children playing outside transported me to the park in Darya Ganj where Sharmila and I played badminton every summer and flew kites in the spring. I even pictured myself back in Paji’s dreaded library, standing in the cold rush of the air-conditioning vents, each time the electricity failed in Nizamuddin. Most agonizing of all was not knowing when I would see my parents again. Mataji had made no mention of it, although it was clear from her supervision that I was not to venture out by myself. I was too timid to ask her directly, though Hema somehow zeroed in on what was on my mind. “Everyone knows the bride isn’t supposed to return to her father’s house for three months,” she declared. “Didn’t you see that movie? Suraiya goes back after only five weeks and her husband gets bitten by a snake and drops dead. “Don’t think your mother can just come by whenever she wants to see you either. She’s from the girl’s side, so she needs a proper invitation from us before she can show her face here. And who knows how many months it will be before Mataji and I both agree it’s time?”

On my third evening

in Nizamuddin, I decided to escape. The idea materialized on the spur of the moment—Mataji was with Hema in the kitchen, berating Sandhya for not browning the onions enough, and the men were all in the living room, their voices already a little unsteady, and punctuated by the pops of soda bottles. Why not sneak out to Darya Ganj while nobody was looking? Perhaps never to come back? My heart began racing at the prospect. I could be sitting on our terrace in less than an hour, enjoying guavas plucked freshly from the tree downstairs. My incarnation as a bride left behind like a spent nightmare—from which I could cull the more harrowing tidbits anytime I wanted to frighten Sharmila. Then I felt a pang of regret. How to retrieve my dowry? For an instant, I wondered if I could gather up all the jewelry and saris and sling them over my shoulder in a bundle when I left. But there was no way to access the trunk in the bedroom unseen. Besides, it wasn’t as if I could tote along the radiogram or fridge. The only choice was to leave everything behind.

The actual getaway turned out to be smooth and quick. I walked along the courtyard perimeter to the gate, pretending to examine the dung fuel cakes stuck to the walls, left over from the time the family had owned a cow. The doors opened at a nudge, the chain clinking noisily, the wood groaning like something alive. But nobody seemed to notice, no voice called out to challenge me even when I stepped across the threshold and closed the doors behind. It was dark already, but I blinked, as if emerging into bright sunlight. The air was thick with the pungency of chilies being fried in rancid oil—this, I told myself, was the scent of freedom, of liberty. I allowed myself to be swept towards the station in a surge of elation, gliding over the muddy street in my red and gold bridal regalia, the folds of my sari held raised so that the embroidered border didn’t get dirty. The vegetable hawkers beamed at me from behind their baskets, their tomatoes shiny and ruddy-cheeked in approval, their eggplants glistening vibrantly in encouragement. I passed the shops selling metal parts, the shanty huts made of gunnysack, the line of rickshaws by the station—all sights familiar from my days of stalking Roopa and Dev. How long ago had that been— years maybe, centuries even? Would this be the last time I set eyes on them? Rummaging through the garbage heap behind the station was the same brown and white cow I had petted so many times for good luck. It interrupted its activity to look up and nod as if in recognition, a wedge of watermelon rind in its mouth forming an enormous green grin. I stood outside the station steps, contemplating the best way to proceed. I still had the rupee coin Sharmila had pressed into my palm for good luck at the wedding. Was that enough for a rickshaw to Darya Ganj? Or should I take a bus—one of the brightly painted vehicles spewing exhaust fumes opposite the station, the conductors shouting out routes through the windows to cram in as many passengers as they could? There was also a local train that ran during the day, but I didn’t know if it went close to where we lived. Then a more alarming question occurred to me. Even if I made it to Darya Ganj, what was to say that Biji would take me in? Hadn’t she always impressed upon us that a woman’s place was by her husband, that he was her god, her Shiva, her pati-parameshwar? “Good or bad, she must accept him as her fate,” I heard her intone. I remembered all the times she had related to us the tale of Sati, who threw herself in a fire when her husband Shiva was insulted. A strange intensity would w w w. u r b a n i t e b a l t i m o re . c o m d e c e m b e r 0 7

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light up in Biji’s eyes each time she got to the part where the pyre was being prepared, as if this was a test to which she herself aspired, just to prove her mettle. I thought of all the bitterly unhappy years of Biji’s own marriage through which she had stuck by my father’s side. What if I appeared at her doorstep and she turned me away? But there was always Paji, who didn’t believe in such things. Paji, who had tried to change Biji’s views so tirelessly. Paji, who quoted Jung and John Stuart Mill, who read out entire chapters from volumes written by Nehru to his daughter, to teach us we were equal to men. Except could it be possible that he wielded these texts so zealously to convince not us but himself? Hadn’t he been the one, after all, with the final say in my marriage, the one who had ultimately said yes? The one who had contracted to hand me over to Dev’s family even as he told me exactly what I could expect? “One hundred and ten rupees for the pressure cooker, two thousand for the refrigerator, eighteen hundred for the radiogram,” I heard him recite, each figure enunciated with a chilling preciseness. “And that doesn’t even include the jewelry or the twenty thousand in cash.” If he had spent so much to give me away, why would he now want me back? I had nowhere left to go, I realized. The only house that remained open to me was the one I had just left behind. All around me people flagged down rickshaws, boarded buses, scurried over tracks to catch trains. Was I the only one without a destination? No matter to whom I turned—relatives or friends or neighbors, what was to prevent my parents from finding out and returning me to Nizamuddin? “New bride?” It was an old woman on the station steps, squatting with a group of other villagers while the men crowded around the ticket window. Thick silver rings adorned her fingers and her nose, and her gold earrings were so heavy that elongated holes had opened up in her lobes. “So pretty,” she said, in a rural dialect of Hindi. “Such a pretty dress. But what are you doing here alone? Where’s your husband? Did he go to get tickets too?” I looked at her, unable to speak. Could this be it? The single point that my existence had been reduced to? Where my husband was, and why wasn’t I with him? Was this the essence, the distillation, of all those years of Biji’s intonations? Why I wasn’t next to my god, my pati, my parameshwar? I started to suffocate at the unfairness of it, my necklace tightening around my throat, my sari weighing on me like a shroud. The woman on the steps looked up in concern, then rose and caught my arm in case I should fall. “It’ll be fine,” she said, pressing a palm soothingly against my cheek. Her skin smelled of old tea leaves. “He’ll be here before you know it. He’s probably around somewhere, watching over you even when you think he isn’t. Just tell him not to leave you alone next time, such a pretty bride.” I gazed at the wrinkles rippling her face, like tidemarks on sand. Tiny blue tattoos ran along her forehead below her hairline. In her eyes was

the gift of empathy, a solidarity that I could not bear to accept. “May God always keep you with husband,” she said, and began to run her hand over my head in blessing. I didn’t wait for her to finish. I tore away and ran back up the street, not caring where I stepped, not worrying whether my sari got soiled. The stallkeepers gaped at me as I stumbled by in my bridal finery—their laughter lingering behind in the air. I had been gone for twenty minutes, maybe twenty-five, but Dev’s entire family was pacing outside on the street. “There she is!” Mataji cried, and rushed me inside, as if I was diseased or naked or raving and had to be whisked away from the neighbors’ eyes.

Everyone gathered in

the courtyard to witness my court-martial. Babuji even dragged his chair and drink table out of the living room for a better view. Dev stood next to his mother, looking at the ground so he wouldn’t accidentally catch my eye. “As it is, all of Nizamuddin has heard rumors about your exploits at the tomb,” Mataji began. “And now the wedding fire hasn’t even cooled and you decide to further distinguish yourself? What were you thinking?” “Yes, what?” Hema chimed in, as from behind her, Sandhya glared at me silently as if incensed over a personal affront. Babuji muttered that of course the bahu thought she could act as she wanted—after all, hadn’t her father bought them a fridge? “Running off without your husband, roaming God knows where. What must people have imagined—a young woman decking herself up and parading up and down the street like that?” Mataji stepped forward, to hit me, I thought, but instead grabbed my wrist and squeezed it hard. “Aren’t there enough tongues you’ve sent wagging already, enough insinuations we’ve had to hear? Did you even stop to think what new scandal the Ahmeds next door will make up out of this?” “The Ahmeds,” Babuji nodded, taking another gulp of his whiskey. “Tell the bahu how good these Muslims are at cooking up gossip.” “I just wanted to take a walk, to look around,” I said, knowing even as I spoke the words that the guilt on my face would give me away. “What do you think, this is Connaught Place, that you can—” Mataji began to say, then stopped. Visible under my fingers, which had opened up under the tightness of her grip, was the gleaming edge of the coin from Sharmila. Before anyone could react, Hema had pried it out of my hand. “Look,” Hema cried, holding it triumphantly in the air. “A whole rupee she was running away with.” Mataji let go of my hand. “I suppose you’re now going to tell us you went to buy samosas? That you had a sudden hankering for fruit mix?” She shook her head in disappointment. “Tell me, have we been mistreating you here that you have to hide things like that? Have we been feeding you on potato peelings or forcing you to haul bricks

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on your head? What have we required of you anyway but to sit on the bed all day and look pretty while Hema and Sandhya and I slave away?” She took the coin from Hema’s hand. “In this house, we don’t hide things. We don’t keep pockets of money stashed around secretly. I’ll hold this for you for safekeeping. I hope you can at least trust me with this.” “I’m sure Meera didn’t mean anything—” Dev finally said, but Mataji raised a hand to cut him off. “Look, Bahu. We’re not the kind of family that believes in mistreating our daughters-in-law. Locking them up or starving them or beating them into submission. We’re modern people. You’re free to do what you want, go where you feel. Leave if you wish. All we ask is that you remember one thing. How you conduct yourself, what you do, reflects not only on you but on all of us. The reputation of the entire family sits balanced on your head.” “Yes,” said Hema. “Remember that. Always.” “I’m sure she will,” Dev said, taking my arm. He hustled me past Mataji and Babuji, past Hema with her gloating smirk, past the inscrutable expression on Arya’s face and Sandhya’s continuing glare.

That Friday, Hema put “Light the Fire

of Your Heart” on the radiogram. The family had been gathering after dinner each evening to hear Dev sing duets with K. L. Saigal. It was uncanny how close Dev’s voice was to Saigal’s, how precise was his reproduction of every intonation, every pitch. Dev stood next to the gramophone at the beginning of the record, so that it sounded like twins singing together, then slowly circled around to the opposite point in the room. If I kept my eyes closed, it was only the orchestra that gave the recorded side away. My failed attempt at running away had driven home an inescapable truth: there were no alternatives left to me, my only hope was with Dev. He was the one with the key to my happiness, my existence was now cuffed to his. He had asked me no questions that evening, just sat me on the bed and brought ice water from the fridge. “Don’t ever think of leaving me—I love you too much,” he’d said. As the sips had slipped down to cool my throat, I had looked at his head in my lap. He was handsome and not unkind, I had told myself, he had his boyishness, his charm. He too was coping with the newness of marriage—couldn’t I be the one adjusting my needs to his? How much easier everything would be if I could believe Dev loved me and I was truly in love with him. I had clung to him that night as he satisfied himself, and tried to rise above the pain. One day, I promised myself, I would find the words to give voice to what I wanted. To take him back to the tomb that day, to the furtiveness we had shared. To proceed from there in slow, unhurried advances, and see if we reached somewhere else. I resolved to look for the positive in Dev. To search for seedlings that I could nurture over time so that they bloomed eventually into fondness, into attachment. Every evening I waited for Hema to play “Light the Fire.” What better way

to recharge myself than to relive the moment of first hearing Dev? I imagined the music swelling up under and around me, the lyrics weightless as clouds carrying me aloft. I would float on them to the same heights as before, and feel a resurgence in my affection for Dev. But the clouds never arrived. Instead of soaring, what I felt when I finally heard Dev sing that Friday was a stoniness that weighed me down. Could this really be the song that had changed my life, was this the voice that had mesmerized me that January day? Would this be all I had to work with, the magic remedy that was supposed to revive and rejuvenate? “Light the fire of your heart,” Dev sang, and the words now had an oppressive edge to them—their import no longer an invitation but a command, an imperative. I knew I had to succeed for my happiness, for my very survival. The realization that I might not plunged me into despair. I closed my eyes as I had for every song and waited for Dev to begin to circle around. This time, he stopped somewhere midway through his arc. “Draw closer and take my hand,” he sang, and I felt an overwhelming urge to flee the room. To cower outside and cover my ears with my palms so that I could keep his lyrics out. “Lead me to a life with less heartbreak,” he urged, loudly and more insistently, and I realized he had not moved. As I opened my eyes, I knew what I would see— Dev standing in front, singing directly to me. Through all my time in Nizamuddin, through the nights with Dev and the days of being a new bride, one thing I had been proud of was keeping the promise I had made before getting into the doli. I had not cried. No matter how suffocated I felt, no matter how homesick or miserable, I had not allowed myself to shed any tears. But perhaps it wasn’t true, perhaps I had been weeping all along, because now when I saw Dev, the tears came surging from some hidden reservoir behind my eyes. “Only love can bring back the light,” he sang, and I felt huge wracking sobs begin to shudder and break away from deep inside. I looked about in panic, trying to squelch them before they rose, trying to thwart them from reaching my lungs or exploding in my throat. All around the room, Dev’s family stood motionless in place, like an audience waiting patiently for the promised spectacle to unfold. Where were the nautch girls to distract them now, Nehru to turn off the electricity, Gandhiji to point out the way for my escape? But Gandhiji did not appear, the lights stayed on, the spate was not deterred. I cried, savoring the voluptuous joy of each sob, letting the rivulets run unimpeded down my cheeks, allowing all my bottled-up regret to break free. “Only love,” Dev concluded, flourishing dramatically towards my tears, like a circus ringmaster flaunting the success of a particularly difficult and exotic trick. “I almost cried myself,” Hema said to me later. “I had no idea you loved him so much.” ■

refresh

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resources Baltimore Observed 41 Disputed Ground For more information about the Mount Washington area of Northwest Baltimore, read Mark Miller’s Mount Washington: Baltimore Suburb—A History Revealed Through Pictures and Narrative. Read more about the Jones Falls Trail (and download a map) at www.jonesfalls. org/trail.htm. 47 Who Loves the Sun? You can view the winning entries in the 2007 Department of Energy Solar Decathlon and learn more about the contest at www.solardecathlon.org. The website for the University of Maryland team is www. solarteam.org. 49 Storybook Ending Clark’s Elioak Farm is located at 10500 Clarksville Pike, Ellicott City (410-730-4049; www.clarkland farm.com). The farm will open for the 2008 season in April. Read memories and check out photos of the Enchanted Forest at www.theenchantedforest.info. The Enchanted Forest Preservation Society’s website (www.enchantedforestmd.org) contains news about the farm, photos, and message boards for discussing Enchanted Forest-related topics.

54 Will Work for Change Learn more about Robert Egger, his work, and his vision for the nonprofit sector in his 2004 book, Begging for Change: The Dollars and Sense of Making Nonprofits Responsive, Efficient, and Rewarding for All, and on his website, www.robertegger.org. The website for D.C. Central Kitchen is www.dc centralkitchen.org.

58 The Building Block Belair-Edison Neighborhoods, Inc. is located at 3412 Belair Rd. (410-485-8422; www. belair-edison.org). More information about the Healthy Neighborhoods Initiative is available at www. ci.baltimore.md.us/neighborhoods/mhninitiative.html.

89 Recommended Theater: The Theatre Project is located at 45 W. Preston St. (www.theatreproject.org). The website for Squonk Opera is www.squonkopera.com. Baltimore: The Opera plays at Theatre Project Nov. 29–Dec. 9. Tickets are $20 general admission, $15 seniors and artists, and $10 for students. Puss in Boots plays Dec. 27–31 and Jan. 2–6. Tickets are $25 for adults, $20 for senior citizens, and $12 for children. Tickets for both events can be purchased at www. missiontix.com or by calling 410-752-8558. Art: Amalgam (loss and celebration), drawings and paintings by Michelle La Perrière, runs through December 21 at the Esther Prangley Rice Gallery in Peterson Hall at McDaniel College (2 College Hill, Westminster; 410-857-2595). The gallery is open Mon–Fri 9 a.m.–4 p.m.

refresh your To read about the Enchanted Forest, go to page 49. Visit www.urbanite baltimore.com to see more photos.

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20th Annual Booklovers’ Breakfast featuring

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no matter who you are, no matter where you are on life’s journey, you are welcome here.

A TALE

OF TWO CHURCHES Join these two church families as we celebrate Christmas

FIRST UNITED CHURCH, United Church of Christ

Dec. 24th

A Service of Lessons & Carols 7:30 p.m. www.firstuniteducc.com

ST. SEBASTIAN INDEPENDENT CATHOLIC CHURCH

Dec. 24th

Midnight Mass Prelude begins at 11:30 p.m.

urbanite december 07

9 a.m. - noon Baltimore Marriott Waterfront Hotel For tickets and information, call the Programs & Publications Office,

410-396-5494.

Dec. 25th

Mass of Christmas Day 10:00 a.m. www.saintsebastiancatholic.com

rev. david b.g. flaherty: pastor • 1728 eastern ave., baltimore, md 21231 • 443.691.9800

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Saturday, January 26, 2008

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eye to eye

A dirt pile in Juárez, viewed from the north, the south, the east, the west. Four photographs that do not direct us toward beauty, but rather toward reflection. They are a meditation on time and the social landscape. Laura Burns is an artist and teacher. She has been the recipient of many grants, most recently a Fulbright Lecture/Research Fellowship that led to the creation of the work shown here. In an e-mail, she explains her work: “On a very basic level, the pictures of dirt piles are related to my ongoing interest in in-between spaces such as empty lots and the Mexico/U.S. border. For me, the dirt piles are themselves rather in between. That is to say, they are utterly banal—there is nothing more common than dirt—but the dirt in the piles is what Mexicans call tierra muerta (dead earth), dirt that no longer serves for growing things, but rather exists as a cast off of construction and industry. Each time I came upon a pile of dirt, I photographed it facing north, south, east, west. The idea was to show an expanded view of a single area. I also liked the fact that the same old dirt pile looked different from each vantage point, reinforcing the idea that one point of view does not present a complete picture. Literally.” The artist has also taken video in the same manner: north, south, east, west, each to be shown on a separate wall around a common center. As I viewed these recently, the world slowed down, and the merest motion became somehow significant. —Alex Castro

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Laura Burns Ciudad Juárez, Mexico, Dirt Pile, corner of Avenida Teofilo Borunda and Paseo de la Victoria, looking NSEW, 3.10.07, from the series Dead Earth Digital prints, each 11 x 14 inches

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