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Column Sometimes just playing bingo makes the point
By JEANNETTE BATZ
There we were, five white churchfolk trying to stand casually on
one side of the cafeteria and not to stare at the red-shirted teenage
delinquents sitting against the opposite wall. It was Birthday Party Evening at
the juvenile correctional center, and wed come at the chaplains
request to help serve cake and call bingo. My stomach churned at the
thought.
Bingo, for kids whove killed? Four corners or
cover-the-card, for young men who cut their teeth on drug deals and gang
wars?
We stood there another five minutes, shifting our weight from one
foot to the other. Cant we do something? I asked, but
the ritual was preordained: The middle group of boys helped in the kitchen,
rewarded with a special snack, while the oldest group set up the chairs.
Hearing one mention the movie Fargo, I blurted that Id just
seen it, but my voice got lost in the general confusion. I felt as shy as high
school myself, wanting to talk to the new kids at the mixer but not sure how to
begin.
So there we stood. If it lasted too much longer, I was afraid
Id start yelling, Weve got spirit, how bout YOU?
across the room. Nobody else seemed bothered by the physical, emotional and
circumstantial gulf between churchfolk and children. But all I could think of
was a woman Id once met, Sondra, and the dry irony in her voice when she
described this old white woman who came to read the Bible to me in
prison. How patronizing we must seem. How evangelically clueless. How
clueless, period.
Foolishly, I whispered this upwelling of anxiety and criticism to
a fellow parishioner, my objections an urgent crescendo until finally I
demanded to know why we were just standing there like the enemy, not
interacting, talking or sharing the work. He stared at me blankly for a minute,
then gently explained how the party usually started with the bingo, then the
presentation of T-shirts to the kids with birthdays, then the cake. Maybe
you could be the caller, he offered helpfully.
At this, I scurried back into my customary shell, protesting that
I hadnt a clue how to be the caller and barely remembered how to play
bingo. Im only an extrovert when somebody else takes the lead. And just
because I see so clearly how things ought to be doesnt mean I want the
responsibility of changing things.
Docile now, I stood with the others against the wall. Finally we
were ready, and I was given a bag of candy to pass out to the winners. Miss
Psychologist, I resolved to let them choose what kind they wanted, figuring
theyd probably never gotten much structured freedom, granted desires or
safe self- expression.
They were blasé about the big choice, most of them already
sure they wanted Snickers. What they really got into was the bingo. They called
out those timeworn B-19s and O-47s in eager voices, double-checking the
diagonals, suggesting the next form of play. I waited for a surly remark or a
sarcastic undercurrent, but everybody stayed interested and -- well, sweet. No
restlessness, not a single rolled eye. It was as wholesome as the Waltons.
After cake, we waved and departed, and I drove home thoughtfully.
Those boys hadnt needed us to come in and pretend like we were in the
same boat, setting chairs up side by side in a show of hearty egalitarianism
before we turned on our heels and left for our happy homes. They knew the drill
and figured we did too. Nobody was going to make a permanent friend tonight or
plumb the depths of someones soul. The monthly Birthday Party simply
relieved the monotony, eased the loneliness, provided a brief stir of
excitement.
Most of all, the bingo offered a chance to think and laugh and
win, or at least be part of a group game in which no one would end up bloody.
It was precisely because bingo was so far removed from their experience that it
worked. How often had they sat around, family-style, with a board game, the
highest stake a bite-size Snickers? This was indeed simple, and it was real in
a way movies and MTV couldnt be.
We like to think of young lawbreakers as jaded, cynical, hard-core
and bitter. But these kids were still young enough, soft enough or in
sufficiently stripped-down circumstances to enjoy the chaplains group
bingo without skepticism. I was the hard-core cynic, so anxious to be cool and
do the visit right that Id missed the obvious.
Suddenly I remembered the rest of that conversation with Sondra.
That lady, she just kept coming and praying with me, no matter how mean I
was to her, shed said. Finally, you know, I think I started
to believe she really did care.
Which was, after all, the only point that had needed to be
made.
Jeannette Batz is a senior editor at The Riverfront Times,
an alternative newspaper in St. Louis.
National Catholic Reporter, September 4,
1998
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