I showed up at the Holmes Tuttle Clubhouse almost precisely on time at 2:30 pm. It doesn't seem like a difficult appointment to make on a Saturday afternoon, but the night before happened to be my 21st birthday and, as expected, I wasn't feeling 100 percent. I was there to help a contingent of UA greeks with their second annual All Greek Service Day.
"(All Greek Service Day) is a day for the greek community to come together," said Rebecca Pitts, vice president of administrative affairs of UA's Panhellenic Association. "It's also a chance to give back to the community that made us what we are."
The community that made me what I was at that moment was the downtown Tucson bar scene. I didn't feel like I owed them anything in particular.
I've always had a certain anxiety about dealing with children. Part of me likes being around them for the reasons that people like being around children: They usually have a lot of fun, they do weird, funny things and they're generally lighthearted.
But another part of me can't seem to begin to approach actually dealing with children, either one-on-one or en masse; there's just something eerily uncanny about seeing a little person looking up at you, speaking a language that sounds like your own, but isn't quite right.
Apparently, the UA greek community had no such quibbles.
I was the first to show up and decided to mill around while I waited for the greeks. The first sight greeting me when I walked in was a sculpture of Holmes Tuttle himself, the mustachioed patron of this particular branch of the Boys and Girls Club. The face had an unnerving leer, almost weird enough to be considered inappropriate for a place where parents send their children. I tried not to look at it.
After about 15 minutes, the greeks showed up. I was told there would be some kind of activity we would help organize, and that helped relieve the anxiety a bit. If there was some kind of structure, then my interactions with the kids would be mediated. There would be something to fall back on and I wouldn't be left stranded talking awkwardly to some kid I didn't know, feeling like it was freshman year at the dorm "getting to know you" pizza socials.
But health and PE director Emmet Phelan just kind of looked at us, shrugged his shoulders and told us to go play. Fabulous.
I stood at the edge of the gym and stalled by pretending to take very extensive, very serious notes. Actually, I was just putting off having to interact with the kids.
"I wanna play basketball with him."
I felt a tug at my shirt. A little girl in a striped T-shirt who couldn't have been more than 7 years old, Marsella, needed someone to teach her how to play basketball. And she picked me. Kids are dumb.
First Marsella decided that I needed a "green card." I had no clue what a green card was then and I don't now. All I know is that I was denied one at the front desk when Marsella insisted that I have one. Everything she said had a certain urgency to it, like playing was a code-red situation that required the utmost speed and precision. She seemed displeased that playtime had gotten off to such a bad start.
Marsella got a ball and struggled through what was probably the most ill-informed, nonsensical basketball lesson ever. I watched as three frat brothers organized what looked like a fairly serious game of three-on-three. Marsella decided we should play kickball instead. And then catch. And then air hockey. And then house. Finally, when she sat down at the arts and crafts table to draw, I slipped away.
Again I stood at the edge of the gym. A kid sunk a basket, flexed his muscles and yelled, "I'm sweaty! I'm the Hulk!" before running off to retrieve his ball. Eight year-old Adam had a hand covered in what looked like either ketchup or blood and wanted to borrow my notebook (which hasn't been the same since). I did find someone with whom I felt an affinity.
I stood next to the water fountain in the gym as a 9-year old boy leaned over to get a drink. He eyed me, grinning slightly.
"What's your name?" I asked, figuring I should at least be friendly.
"What are you writing?" he asked.
"I'm writing a story for a newspaper," I replied.
"I ain't telling you my name," he said, and grinned a little wider.
After a little cajoling he agreed.
"Do you know how to spell 'Arrat'?" he asked, then reached out for my pen and notebook to write it down. As soon as they were in hand, Arrat took off running. I chased him around the gym twice before somebody else caught him and made him hand over the notebook, but not before he generously spelled his name for me.
At that point, I figured I'd cut my losses and go home. None of the greeks seemed to have my issues with kids: they organized games, drew pictures for the kids, and I even saw a few of them consoling hurt feelings and bandaging skinned knees.
I figure it's just as well. Let them handle it. My inner child can't get into the bars anyway.