Corpus Christi Youth Centre

This week, service began in earnest.

Monday marked the first day of my work with Corpus Christi Youth Centre, a YMCA-esque club in the Ballymurphy estate of West Belfast. All of us have been placed at various Youth Centres: Erica is with me, Will and Emma are at Holy Family, Mark and Meredith are at Saint Teresa’s, and Patrick is at All Saints. It’s looking at this point as though Corpus is one of, if not outright, the most economically hard-strung centre. Funding is a contentious issue for all of the clubs, as the government money set aside for youth work generally goes to more glamorous, nationwide campaigns themed around preventing suicide or underage drinking, rather than to the places that exist on a day-to-day level as a refuge for kids. Ballymurphy is one of the poorer estates in Belfast, which makes Corpus’ issues even greater.

Ballymurphy may be poor, but it isn’t unremarkable. The estate saw a disproportionately large amount of murder, bloodshed and conflict during The Troubles, due in large part to its heavily Republican/Catholic makeup. As one of the centre supervisors said during our induction, “The War was fought in West Belfast,” and few places got hit harder than Ballymurphy.

Another individual who works at Corpus, an ex-IRA volunteer named Liam Stone, told us (more on his story to come in the future) more about Ballymurphy. Kids associate their home with the colors black, white and gray, something that the staff has heard from them consistently over the years. However, when shown an overhead view of the estate—arcs of houses coexisting with liberal amounts of green—they identify the image of Ballymurphy as America. To get in and out of the area, they have to pass by an enormous British Army post, and its presence is a daily fact of the estate (since 1994, only one new building has been constructed in Ballymurphy: a British barracks). In areas of Ballymurphy, unemployment is as high as 70-80%, and of the 14,000 people that live there, over 50% are under the age of 25.

My experience with the Ballymurphy youth up to this point has illuminated these facts even further. The kids, when they find out that I’m from America, love to ask me, “America! Is it good?” a seemingly clumsy way of asking what the country’s like. The next question is inevitably which I like better: Belfast or America. Seeing as I’ve been in Belfast for all of two and a half weeks—and those two and a half weeks were proceeded by 19 years and seven months in America—it’s a pretty impossible query for me to answer. I’ll ask how they like Belfast, and the answers I get back are usually along the lines of, “It’s shite” or “It’s crap.” I try to challenge this perception, and I’ll frequently get begrudging acknowledgments of the city’s virtues, but the conversations do reflect the idea that these kids of all ages positively associate with the US and negatively associate with their home.

My responsibilities at the club are simple: be a good influence. There is almost zero structure as to my job, and I’m expected to play pool, play snooker, play table tennis, make arts and crafts, play soccer (football) and just hang out with the youth (in two sessions: the first, 4-7 pm, is with kids around the ages of 7-10 or 11, and the second, 7-10 pm, is with kids from 12-18). It’s exhausting; it’s rewarding; it’s fun; it’s awkward; it’s difficult; it’s informative; it’s great. It’s all the things working with kids often is. I’ve answered many questions about the US—where I’m from, our celebrities, the country’s best parts (Connecticut, of course), what we do for fun, and on and on and on…—and asked just as many about Ireland.

And in Ballymurphy, it is Ireland, not Northern Ireland or the UK. The centre has some distinct marks of a Republican/Catholic populace. Kids rock Celtic apparel quite frequently, many of the names are distinctively Irish in origin, the Union Jack is nowhere to be seen, and murals commemorating the IRA or calling out the Crown and the Ulster paramilitaries are sewn into the fabric of the streetfront. The people are Irish. One teenager of probably 13 or 14 clued me into the collective psyche best, without even realizing it; he was talking about how Belfast sucked, and how everything down south—in the Republic of Ireland proper, “where there are no Protestants”—was better. I don’t remember him saying that it was better because there were no Protestants, but he definitely made sure to mention that this absence of Protestants was the case in Ireland, and it certainly seemed to factor into his opinion of the two regions.

This being said, that was the only instance that I’ve seen all week that even approached sectarianism. Other than that, the kids are wildly accepting of others—hell, they’re accepting me with gusto—and often go out of their way to make each other feel comfortable. The older youths help the younger ones out and work hard to maintain the centre, doing chores and maintenance work when they otherwise could be out on their own. When a bunch of the guys were about to leave after working on the centre for a while one morning, they asked the Corpus’ head youth worker—a man who goes by the name of Bosley and who is both incredibly supportive and brutally hilarious—what they could come in and do the next day. He said he didn’t have any chores for them. They protested, until he came up with something they could come in and work on. I’d never seen anything like it.

The issues we need to deal with are some that American youth workers could certainly relate to, especially those dealing with the impoverished. Underage promiscuity is a serious one; Bosley informed me that 15% of those under the age of 16 have an STD, and girls as young as 12 and 13 are going around with 40-year old men. Horrifying stuff. I’m on the lookout for bracelets called shag-tags, which girls wear in certain colors, each color corresponding to a different sex act. If a boy goes up to them and breaks the bracelet, she needs to perform that sex act with the boy. Bosley pulled one off of a girl earlier in the week, and he told me how shag-tags are absolutely banned inside of the club—for good reason. There have also been some cases of children-to-children molestation taking place right outside of the centre, but for various reasons I won’t go into that in detail. Sex health and sex education are massive priorities for Corpus. Aside from that, there’s underage drinking and smoking as big concerns, as well as other drug use, and domestic abuse is another main problem. These kids are certainly facing more, and more serious, obstacles than I ever did growing up, and I’m going to do my best to try and help them around.

On a more upbeat note: it’s still early, but the opportunities here are going to be incredible. There’s the sheer experience of working with the kids, which has already proven to be revelationary, and there are the experiences I’ll be getting through the youth centre. This week, I’m taking a class with a bunch of the kids from 10-3 every day on Belfast Republicanism, and at night one of them is teaching a group—including me—to DJ. The kid’s good, and I’m excited. There could even be some Gaelic football in my future, although I don’t want to get too excited about that until I know more; that’ll help avoid me getting my heart broken. But we’ll see: our work—and our education—has only begun.

Michael Jackson’s Death, as Seen From Ireland

The day after MJ was pronounced dead, the first commentary I heard from the Irish we’ve been spending time with were jokes, mostly having to do with children. The rest was no different. The tabloids, which make up the bulk of the UK’s newspapers (or so it seems, at least), were quick to point fingers at the names of any drugs they could look up, used in some sort of “cocktail” that led to the fatal heart attack. Things peaked when we were waiting for the Lord Mayor’s Parade to begin—we marched in it, a story for another post—and one of the Irish youth centre kids that we were marching with approached me.

Kid: Do you like Michael Jackson?

Me: Uhhh… I like his music, I don’t really have any opinion on the guy though.

Kid: Well what do you think of him?

Me: Alright, just say the joke, I know that’s what you’re going for.

(A few sentences where neither of us could really understand each other)

Kid: I’m glad he’s dead.

Me: That’s not very nice.

Kid: He was a peedophile. (pronounced as it reads)

The kid then went on to tell me a garish story about the time that Michael Jackson supposedly came on to him. I’ll spare everyone the details.

Tributes to the man appeared to be few and far in between. Most of the legitimate newspapers had it front page, of course, and in a much more respectable presentation than that of The Sun, The Daily Mirror, etc. But from what I gathered when I got back to Farset Sunday afternoon—we were away at a country house in Lorne this weekend, without access to any form of media—the US had  for the last few days been sopping with memorials to one of the greatest pop artists in history. Granted, his music has been in heavy rotation over here as well, and the club we were at last night played “Billie Jean” and closed out with “Man in the Mirror.” I also know for sure that the US hasn’t been free from bad jokes and rumormongering. However, there’s a distinct difference.

I knew I was a culture junkie already, so my incorrigible need to be informed on what’s going on back in the States has come as no surprise. But I’ve never felt so cognizant of the fabrics binding together American culture as I do now, after watching MJ’s death play out from thousands of miles away. I watched the YouTube videos and I read the reporting—and make no mistake, his death provoked some inspired writing—and it all made me wish I was back home so that I could experience such a monumental event in person. I’ve never been terribly well-informed on Michael’s work or life, but I do worship at the altar of American music, and I recognize his importance.

What his death definitely helped me take notice of was my own Americanness, something that was only exemplified by my presence in a place that is very much not America. Seen from afar, I felt proud of our nation’s ability—and you can argue this point if you want, but at least from my perspective, you’d be wrong—to still come together, recognize, and honor a man who helped make American culture what it is.

I leave you with this. Enjoy: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MfIE3Rz6IgE

The Troubles Meets the Youth

Our program (or should I say, programme) has begun to incorporate our youth work into the “induction,” which is what they call this little introductory phase that we’re in. I would’ve gone with, you know, introduction, but what I first thought was a typo is definitely what they’re calling it. Fair enough.

The children, the children—that’s what we’re here for. And after speaking with Seamus (of St. Teresa’s Youth Centre, which until yesterday I thought was something called Centrizes, because that’s how they pronounce it—they run the Saint into Teresa’s and don’t pronounce that first e, closing it by blending the sa’s into a sort of zus), Stephen Bosley (called just Bosley, of Corpus Christi Youth Centre), and Martin (of Holy Family), I know much more about what the state of the youth is here in Belfast.

Corpus Christi is the most poor-off, but all three are on the lower level in terms of deprived communities. In the area around CCYC, 3.6% of adults have University qualifications. The kids themselves don’t actually know much about the Troubles, but they know they’re supposed to hate Protestants if they’re Catholic, Catholics if they’re Protestants, etc. Just not why. One of the most telling quotes so far came from a Catholic boy of probably 13 from St. Teresa’s, when the subject of guns was brought up: “Guns are for those Protestant fucks.”

90% of students in Belfast still go to segregated faith schools; only about ten percent are attending with members of the opposite faith. Youth work becomes so important because it’s an opportunity to expose children from both religions to their counterparts, and do it in a recreational, relaxed, productive environment. The youth work we’re doing is intended to be fun. Basically, these centres serve as after-school hangouts for children ages 7-11, and 11-18, offering arts, pool, ping-pong, sports, and most importantly a safe place to hang out devoid of drugs and booze.

At the same time, they receive positive messages from the staff, primarily focused on anti-drug, -underage drinking, -unsafe sex, and -sectarian (kids as early as three years old here show evidence of sectarian identification) behavior along with encouragement in positive aspects. All of these are problems. Seamus, Bosley, and Martin said it won’t be uncommon for us to hear kids as young as 13 telling stories about their sex lives, drinking routinely, and having multiple sex partners within the span of a night—including girls. Similar problems to American working class environments, certainly, but that doesn’t make them any less disturbing.

Our job is to challenge this behavior verbally, asking the kids why they’ve acted this way and what they have to gain from these actions. We’re also supposed to be positive role models and report to the staff about any children who are suffering from domestic abuse, committing crimes, etc. We’re watching over them, essentially. We’ll also be responsible for running some sort of program with children, and it’s up to come up with an idea. I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately; we’ll see what I manage to think up.

They also laid out some rules for us to follow: never touch a student, don’t allow yourself to be put in a situation that could raise the suspicion of sexual or physical impropriety, don’t yell. Common sense stuff, but of the utmost importance. We’ve been told that we’ll never be in an environment where it’s just us and young people—there must always be at least two staff members around at all times. Which is good to know. It’s a little daunting, but spending time at the summer schemes with the students is going to be a lot of fun.

I’ll definitely get better at soccer, at least. In my first game with Irish kids—5v5 in the gym of Corpus Christi, with Emma (another member of the Duke group, and a former varsity soccer captain) playing on the other side—I did manage to score, but most of the time I was flailing around and tripping over myself. Plus, after my goal I went and played goalkeeper, and some kid managed to score on me with a backheel, facing away from the goal (it doesn’t help that Emma’s been regularly reminding me that she set him up for the shot).

Hey, it’s a start.

The Conflict

The Ulster Volunteer Forces gave up their guns earlier this week, just as we were learning who they actually are. Apparently this is an historic time to be in Belfast. We spent most of Thursday and Friday learning about the Troubles and the youth work that we’ll be doing over here, as well as the socioeconomic, religious, and loyalist/nationalist demographics of the city. It would be impossible for me to reconstruct all that I’ve learned for the blog—not that I’d even be capable; at the heart of the Troubles is a maddeningly intricate knot of concerns, past offenses, and personal baggage that tears the two sides apart—but I’ll highlight some of the interesting bits.

Conflict hasn’t vanished with the decommissioning of the paramilitaries, but it has changed. There was just a controversy here over the attacking and forcing out of 100 Romanians (gypsies) from their homes. Belfast isn’t used to immigration, because for the last 30 years nobody wanted to come to a city that was tearing itself apart. Now that some semblance of peace has come, the natural pattern of immigration has begun, and with it comes the typical problems of integration and acceptance. Interestingly, this violence not only points towards the elements of racism distinctly present in Belfast society; it also points to its increasing civilization and modernization. The big boy problems. Every cloud has a silver lining, but the incident nonetheless resonated deeply with the Irish we’ve been interacting with, people who have the crises of prejudice fresh in their minds.

Both sides might have put down their weapons by now, but the sectarian feelings weren’t destroyed with the guns. It’s easy to tell if you’re in a Republican or a Loyalist neighborhood in Belfast. Catholic areas are decked out with flags of the Irish Tricolor, and murals of Bobby Sands, his fellow hunger strikers, and other IRA heroes adorn the sides of buildings. Protestant areas, such as the Shankill, fly the Union Jack and feature murals with masked members of the UVF carrying AK-47s. These are scary; particularly horrifying is the “Prepared for peace, ready for war” invocation. We’ve seen just about all of those murals in person by now, and they’re a spectacle. Our hostel is on neutral ground, and it has hosted both former U(lster)D(efense)A(ssociation) and I(rish)R(epublican)A(rmy) members since we’ve been here.

We were clued into the deep roots of the feelings almost immediately upon arrival, as we ate an “Ulster Fry” that was prepared for us by the staff (fried bread, fried eggs, fried sausages, beans, and more… I only managed to get down the bread and beans, but just looking at the plate took a year off my life). Carolyn, our program coordinator—she’s a Catholic but is committed now to youth work and the reconciliation of Catholics and Protestants, especially among adolescents—was giving us a brief rundown of the Orange Order marches coming up. The Orange Order holds parades through the city pretty often, and there are three, all taking place while we’re here, that can get pretty contentious. They’re basically shows of Protestant pride, and when they approach interfaces—the areas where Catholic neighborhoods meet Protestant—rocks get thrown and drunken conflict often ensues. As Carolyn informed us about the Tour of the North, a parade on Friday, a woman approached us and asked if she could interject. She went on to explain angrily (addressing us students) that no Catholics are to march alongside the Orange Order, and that Orange Order members cannot attend “Roman Catholic” mass. We had no idea what she was talking about, but we could tell she was pissed. Apparently her grandfather was a grandmaster in the Orange Order. She ended her speech by saying, “If that’s not sectarian, I don’t know what is.” Carolyn tried to build a little empathy through an anecdote about how her father had converted for her mother, and at his funeral his friends in the Oranger Order couldn’t attend the service because it was in a Catholic church. She didn’t seem comforted. This will do for now—I’ll post again tomorrow with more information about what we’ve learned so far and the opportunites we’ve had.

Technical Difficulties

Massive technical difficulties: will post again when I’m able, hopefully soon.

Belfast

It’s a haunting sensation, seeing a country that you’ve never been within a thousand miles of and having it look just like you expected. That’s how I felt as our plane landed at Belfast International—green hills dotted with sheep and cows, isolated brick houses, etc. Media representations of the British Isles have given most Americans a fair idea of what it looks like, but that’s not to say they do it justice. Northern Ireland is beautiful. Unfortunately, my camera ran out of batteries this morning as we left, but looking out from the stands on a Gaelic football match framed by the red-clad crowds of the stadium and the hills in the background was spectacular. It was a cocktail of weathered culture, modern mass-entertainment amenities, and natural grandeur. And speaking of cocktails, the beer here is excellent.

Our days so far have been mostly programmed for us. The first evening we headed out to a beach to meet the first of the many young Northern Irish that we will be working with over the next few weeks. The beach was gorgeous, and the kids were fairly shy. We managed to reach them through a little effort, though, and I came away with the choice quote “I’m not boxing nobody,” courtesy of a lad who liked to kick soccer balls at people, said in response to Mark (a member of our group) inviting him to play a game called back-head boxing. The interaction there was limited, though. We followed up the beach with a trip to a traditional Irish pub, of the Nationalist/Republican/Catholic persuasion, complete with Irish writing and images of Bobby Sands. Irish immersion began in earnest when I was grabbed by a woman and led in traditional dancing—to the tune of an accordion, no less—for over twenty minutes. I’m positive that I’ll never be told to “glide” so many times in one night ever again. It was a satisfying first taste of the city, characterized by its modern downtown, more traditional residential areas, and rural outskirts. At this point we lacked the proper historical background to begin contextualizing the city itself, but that was to come soon.

T-2 days.

We fly two days from now—Tuesday, June 16—to Belfast, Northern Ireland, out of Newark, New Jersey. What better place than the Newark airport to be the last thing I see before leaving the country for two months, right? This will be the resolution of a month of confusion, frustration and insanity regarding my team’s trip to Belfast and my own summer plans.

Instead of writing a furious novel for my first blog post, I’ll sum it all up quickly: first, I thought I was flying to Belfast on May 14 and working for the Institute for Conflict Research. Then I thought I was going to New Orleans. Then they told me I was going to Northern Ireland again, but didn’t really know where I’d be living or working. Now, after nothing short of a miracle, I have a placement working with Belfast kids and am living in the same hostel I was initially planning on living in: Farset International.

Safe to say, I’m excited to get on the ground. My next post should come from Belfast soil, with my plane scheduled to land there at 9 am on Wednesday.