Here I am in my neighborhood—at the center of my mission—with a bunch of highly intelligent and intuitive kids whose idea it was to come around here. I’m beginning to panic. It’s the kind of panic I imagine a kid feels as he sneaks out of his parents’ house to go to a party in the next neighborhood over. As he leaves his house and walks down his own street, he likely ducks his head, trying to make himself invisible. Suddenly every car is his neighbor’s car. Every guy walking his dog is the guy who’s friends with his dad. Every face he passes could be the person who says, “Hey, I saw your son out walking last night. Everything okay?” It’s only when he enters into the next neighborhood that a veil of anonymity makes him feel safe, like he might actually pull this off. I feel this, only I am heading out of anonymity and into familiarity. I am scanning the streets for the regulars I see all the time. There’s the flowing skirt lady. She wears these long prairie skirts and rides her bike all over the place.
