2008 Woodie Awards
SoulJoe Boy Tells It
Stepping off of the cross and into the community
Joe Eggleston
Issue date: 8/21/08 Section: Commentary
A bubble is something that happens when you accidentally squeeze the shampoo bottle at the wrong time. But a bubble can also be a term for a certain type of isolation, a separation from the world outside.
Saint Louis University is often accused of being trapped in a bubble--a cultural one, not a soapy one. But the SLU isn't really a bubble at all. The SLU Bubble is really more like a gated community.
SLU boasts of a veritable gigaplexon of service hours provided to the St. Louis community. Students are regularly encouraged to pop and help our struggling, surrounding neighborhoods.
This mentality is great in theory, but in practice, it seems to have that stuck-up, gated community air about it.
The wrought-iron gates of SLU seem to make that walk to the other side of the street more like a pilgrimage than a stroll. The gates visually establish the attitude that "we have stuff worth protecting and . . . ah . . . well, you don't" mentality. We just want to help you and serve you, the gates say, but we can't benefit from anything you have to offer.
The distinction between one side of the fence and the other is really the difference between acting like a savior and being a good community member.
The savior is like someone who does two hours of service per week and is non-existent the other 166 hours. Good community members are like roommates who share space and frequently depend on each other.
I typically find it tough to be that good community member; being the savior can be very attractive to me. This summer in my apartment, half a block off campus, I was a better roommate than usual.
My roommates and I would often find ourselves chatting on the front porch, licking popsicles with our bikes strewn out in the yard like a bunch of 12-year-olds.
By doing this we strengthened our own small community and noticed parts of the community around us we did not see before, like a pick-up truck turned hotdog stand that would feed the police and mechanics around noon, and the Saturday stickball game the workers at United Automotive would play in the abandoned lot next to us.
One of the strongest community assets I discovered this summer was Grand Center Barber & Beauty Salon located across the street from the Olive/ Compton garage.
With a 3-month old buzz cut encroaching on my ears and neck, I quietly took a seat in the back of the shop. I could tell the salon had been around for a while when I looked to my left and saw a poster of early '90s hair styles ranging from DJ Jazzy Jeff during his Fresh Prince days to the side stripes of Vanilla Ice.
While I started thinking of ways to get a poster like that, a man walked in that seemed to know everyone in the place and everyone that walked in. As I picked up a copy of The St. Louis American and read stories of dedicated local teachers and columns discussing the state of the St. Louis black community, the men talked about things happening at church and new young leaders in the community.
After about an hour of waiting on a busy Saturday afternoon, a 5-year-old boy walked in. He strolled around the room peeking at me out of the corner of his eye and casually sat down in the seat next to me, instead of the one by his brother.
He then turned to me and said, "Hello, I'm Darrel," in a voice that sounded more like it belonged to a 45-year-old, rather than a 5-year-old, and he then explained to me the woes of kindergarten and asked me questions.
Before Darrel could extract my whole life story, I was relaxing in Netta's chair and, being the only new customer, I heard "how would you like your hair done today," for the first time.
When the scissors stopped, Darrel reassured me that my hair looked great, and I only had to drop $12. Netta "Nutta Butta" Thomas gave me her card to make sure I came back and as I started walking away I realized I was leaving a small part of strong larger community and that my SLU self was not the savior of it.
It seemed this community thrived on active members, not service hours.
When I passed through the doorway, the first image I saw was a black gate stretching all the way down Lindell Boulevard. SLU did not seem like it wanted to be a part of the community I just left.
Joe Eggleston is a senior in the College of Arts and Sciences.
Saint Louis University is often accused of being trapped in a bubble--a cultural one, not a soapy one. But the SLU isn't really a bubble at all. The SLU Bubble is really more like a gated community.
SLU boasts of a veritable gigaplexon of service hours provided to the St. Louis community. Students are regularly encouraged to pop and help our struggling, surrounding neighborhoods.
This mentality is great in theory, but in practice, it seems to have that stuck-up, gated community air about it.
The wrought-iron gates of SLU seem to make that walk to the other side of the street more like a pilgrimage than a stroll. The gates visually establish the attitude that "we have stuff worth protecting and . . . ah . . . well, you don't" mentality. We just want to help you and serve you, the gates say, but we can't benefit from anything you have to offer.
The distinction between one side of the fence and the other is really the difference between acting like a savior and being a good community member.
The savior is like someone who does two hours of service per week and is non-existent the other 166 hours. Good community members are like roommates who share space and frequently depend on each other.
I typically find it tough to be that good community member; being the savior can be very attractive to me. This summer in my apartment, half a block off campus, I was a better roommate than usual.
My roommates and I would often find ourselves chatting on the front porch, licking popsicles with our bikes strewn out in the yard like a bunch of 12-year-olds.
By doing this we strengthened our own small community and noticed parts of the community around us we did not see before, like a pick-up truck turned hotdog stand that would feed the police and mechanics around noon, and the Saturday stickball game the workers at United Automotive would play in the abandoned lot next to us.
One of the strongest community assets I discovered this summer was Grand Center Barber & Beauty Salon located across the street from the Olive/ Compton garage.
With a 3-month old buzz cut encroaching on my ears and neck, I quietly took a seat in the back of the shop. I could tell the salon had been around for a while when I looked to my left and saw a poster of early '90s hair styles ranging from DJ Jazzy Jeff during his Fresh Prince days to the side stripes of Vanilla Ice.
While I started thinking of ways to get a poster like that, a man walked in that seemed to know everyone in the place and everyone that walked in. As I picked up a copy of The St. Louis American and read stories of dedicated local teachers and columns discussing the state of the St. Louis black community, the men talked about things happening at church and new young leaders in the community.
After about an hour of waiting on a busy Saturday afternoon, a 5-year-old boy walked in. He strolled around the room peeking at me out of the corner of his eye and casually sat down in the seat next to me, instead of the one by his brother.
He then turned to me and said, "Hello, I'm Darrel," in a voice that sounded more like it belonged to a 45-year-old, rather than a 5-year-old, and he then explained to me the woes of kindergarten and asked me questions.
Before Darrel could extract my whole life story, I was relaxing in Netta's chair and, being the only new customer, I heard "how would you like your hair done today," for the first time.
When the scissors stopped, Darrel reassured me that my hair looked great, and I only had to drop $12. Netta "Nutta Butta" Thomas gave me her card to make sure I came back and as I started walking away I realized I was leaving a small part of strong larger community and that my SLU self was not the savior of it.
It seemed this community thrived on active members, not service hours.
When I passed through the doorway, the first image I saw was a black gate stretching all the way down Lindell Boulevard. SLU did not seem like it wanted to be a part of the community I just left.
Joe Eggleston is a senior in the College of Arts and Sciences.
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