Voices From The Neighborhood
I had six kids with me, two probation officers, and a mission—to clean up a vacant lot in the neighborhood. Before we even got to the site, I passed out brooms, rakes, and shovels back at the office. The kids didn’t even ask what the shovels were for, which should’ve been a red flag.
As we walked through the streets, I could feel the dread bubbling up in the group. The kids were dragging their feet, already thinking about how to get out of it. I knew the drill.
When we reached the corner before the lot, I stopped them.
“Alright. Right here—this corner is your complaint zone,” I said. “So if your legs hurt, your back’s sore, your head hurts, your sinuses are acting up, your mama stressed you out, you don’t feel like it, or you got your period… say it now. Right here. Right now. Because when we cross that street—no complaints.”
The kids looked at me, then each other. One by one, the whining started.
“My back hurts!”
“I didn’t eat today.”
“My grandma made me come!”
“I’m tired, tired, TIRED.”
And then one boy shouted, “I think I just got my period!”
We all cracked up—even the probation officers couldn’t keep a straight face.
After a few minutes of laughing and venting, I said, “Anyone else got anything to add?”
“Can we go back to the corner? I forgot something,” one kid asked.
“Too late,” I said. “We crossed the street. This side’s complaint-free.”
As we walked the last stretch toward the lot, J’ayLa came up beside me, quiet for a minute, then asked, “Ms. Danna, do you have kids?”
“Yeah,” I said. “I’ve got four.”
She looked up at me and nodded. “I knew it. You’re a good mom.”
That one sentence hit me in a way I didn’t expect. My heart could hardly fit in my chest. I gave her my best mom smile and pulled her in for a quick side hug.
“Why do you say that?” I asked.
“Because you’re good to us,” she said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
“Well you make it easy for me to be good to you” I responded with a smile.
When we got to the lot, they figured out real quick why they had shovels. A few minutes in, one of the kids shoved their shovel under something, then jumped back fast.
“Ewww! Is that… a dead cat?!”
Sure was.
The group froze for a second. There was that moment of shock, disgust, and a little bit of silence. Then J’ayLa broke it with a question that surprised me.
“Why don’t people pick up after themselves?” she asked, looking right at me.
I paused. “That’s why you’re doing this,” I told her. “To learn how to take care of your community. And when you grow up and have your own kids, you’ll teach them to respect where they live. Because you helped keep it safe and clean. Isn’t that what everybody wants? A nice community to live in?”
She nodded slowly, still watching the others, who were now back to clearing the area. That moment stuck with me. It wasn’t just about picking up trash. It was about planting something—an idea, a little seed of pride—that might grow into something better later on.
I handed one of the officers $25 and said, “Go to Mr. Kim’s store, tell him it’s for the kids doing community service. He’ll give you a discount. Grab some drinks and snacks.”
While he was gone, we kept working. Then I started limping a bit—when I get tired, Forest Stump likes to act up.
“You okay?” one of the officers asked.
“Yeah, just this pesky thing,” I said, lifting my pant leg. His eyes widened.
“No way… you’re an amputee?”
“Yup.”
The kids overheard and gathered around.
“Wait—you got a robot leg?” one said, wide-eyed.
“I knew something was different about the way you walked,” said another.
I smiled. “Alright, alright. Snack break. You get two questions each. Then we go back to work.”
They sat down with their chips and juice like I was telling ghost stories around a campfire.
“What happened to your leg?”
“When I was seven, back in the 1900s…” I started. They immediately burst out laughing.
“Oh lord, she said 1900s!”
“Like… 1901??”
“Let me tell it!” I said, grinning. “My little sister and I got hit by a car. I lost my leg. She got burned on her arm and face. So we’ve been living with this since we were kids. That’s why, when I get tired, you’ll see me limp a little. That’s Forest Stump—that’s what I call my leg.”
They howled laughing again.
“Does it hurt sometimes?” one asked.
“Nah, not usually. It’s like wearing a really fancy boot you can’t take off.”
“Can you take it off at night?”
“Yep. Comes off just like a shoe. And no, I’m not showing you right now,” I laughed.
“Do you ever wish you had your real leg?”
“Sometimes. But then I think—my real leg wouldn’t have this kind of story behind it. It wouldn’t have walked me through all this.”
The snack break ended. The kids got back to work, still whispering about Forest Stump, but this time with a little more respect in their eyes. Not just because I had a prosthetic, but because I’d shown them something more—resilience, humor, and a whole lotta love.
That day, one of the probation officers pulled me aside and said, “You’d make a better PO than me. I’m gonna use that ‘complaint corner’ trick.”I laughed. “I’m the oldest of nine kids. You gotta make it fun or they’ll turn on you real quick.”