Urban Dictionary Comes to Life.

It's a Wednesday evening in August and the sun has just disappeared from the sky, taking with it the sticky heat that has clutched Los Angeles all day.

I am driving back to work with dinner I just picked up for the teenagers taking make-up classes at the office, trying to finish the 30 hours required for me to hand them a laminated certificate stating they've completed the Life Skills Training program. The sky is hazy pink and my car smells like fried chicken.

When I walk through the door with plastic bags full of rice and chicken and mac & cheese, the kids start complaining that I didn't get pizza or cheeseburgers or taquitos. I tell them to shush and wash their hands before they eat, which they do.

There's only a handful of them tonight and most of them just finished their last day of summer school, so everyone is in a good mood. The girls are teasing Trey about a crush he has and he's protesting.

"Uh-UH!" he says. "You guys are trippin.' I'm not in love with her!" He pronounces "love" with an "uhhhh" in the middle.

"Oh, Trey!" Janet hollers at him. "Stop gettin' all butt hurt and stuff."

I glance up from my plate of food. "What'd you just say, Janet? 'But her'?" I'm terribly confused.

They all look at me. "Yeah, Miz. Jenn," Janet says. "Y'know. Butt hurt."

I don't know. I look at her quizzically. "No. What does 'but her' mean?"

They start to laugh. "Naw, Miz. Jenn! Not 'butt her!' BUTT. HURT." Trey yells. "Like when your feelings get hurt over somethin' dumb. When it ain't serious."

I've never heard the expression before, but everyone else seems to know it, even the class instructor, who is older than I am.

"Okay, okay," I say. I nod my head. "You guys are teaching me something new. I'm going to use this expression later, though." I pause. "So, I could say something like, 'I got in a fight with my roommate and I'm low-key butt hurt?'"

"Awwww!" John puts one finger to his lips and points the other at me. "Miz. Jenn, did you just say 'low key?'" They're all bent over at the waist, laughing.

"It ain't 'low-key' anymore though, Miz. Jenn!" Trey informs me. "That's like, two, three months ago. Now it's 'low-ball.'"

"Aw, that's some Crenshaw talk," Janet teases Trey.

"What? What? You talkin' bout Crenshaw?" John says. "Don't make me come up to you, girl. You be talkin' bout Crenshaw." Everyone is laughing.

"I'm not even from Crenshaw," Trey says. "I was born in Compton."

I turn around to face him, a stocky 17 year-old with a neck tattoo and a sweet grin. "Alright, what do you guys say in Compton then?"

He pauses for a second. "Aw, we say like, 'You roastin' him.'"

"Roasting?" I ask. I fan myself with my hand. "Like you're hot?"

They all look at each other and explode with laughter again. Trey is gasping.

"Hot? She say hot? Nobody hear that?" John yells.

Janet looks at me and smiles. "Nah, like when you're making fun of someone. Like you're roasting them."

They're all talking over each other now, trying to come up with words and expressions to teach me. They can't believe how little I know.

"Naw, we gotta teach her mickey!" Trey is yelling now. "She gotta know that, she be dealin' with some gang-bangers!"

I try to quiet them down, as the noise level is reaching deafening levels. Latrice is now playing the new Nicki Minaj song on her phone, which is competing with hardcore rap coming from Andrew's iPod.

Shorty I'm only gonna tell you this once, you the illest, sings Nicki. And for your love I'm a die-hard like Bruce Willis. I think briefly about dancing to Annie Lennox in my living room as a little girl.

"Okay, okay. One at a time," I tell them. "And anyway. I think it's time I teach you guys some expressions."

They look doubtful. "What you gonna teach us?" Trey asks.

"Well. How about some British expressions? Like, right now I really need you all to belt up!"

Confusion passes over their faces. "Belt up? What's that mean, Miz. Jenn?" John asks.

"It means to be quiet," I say, smiling.

"For real?" Janet says.

"Your parents are British?" Trey is asking. "They strict and stuff? They always make sure your room ain't dirty?"

John is waving his hands. "Wait, wait, Miz. Jenn! Can you say something to us in British? Like your parents say it?"

I laugh. I tell them that if they promise to clean up the remnants of dinner, to wash the dishes and throw away all their trash, I'll fake a British accent. They eagerly agree.

I put on my most posh accent. "Okay. My mom might say something like, 'Jennifer, darling. Would you fancy some strawberries or a glass of water?'" I don't pronounce the r at the end of my name, and make the t's as crisp as possible.

They are all giggling. Janet tells me I sound like I'm from the film "Titanic." They beg me to say something else.

"Oh my gawd, Miz. Jenn!" Latrice squeals. "What other languages do you speak besides that?"

Shaniece

Today I drive through Inglewood, onto the 105 East, past Watts Towers and through Lynwood. It finally feels like August in Los Angeles, and the sun hangs in the sky like a splattered egg yolk. It's so bright that the city is awash in white and grey, and the stream coming from the air conditioning in my Honda Civic does little to stop the backs of my knees from sweating.

"Welcome to Compton" a blue sign in the center of the road reads as I roll down Long Beach Boulevard. "Birthing a New City" it says below. I can see little of that though - just women pushing grocery carts and carrying babies, men hanging outside Mel's Liquor Store, clusters of teenagers in tight tube tops waiting for the bus. Compton often feels closer to an African township than to Beverly Hills.

I eventually pull up at the address for Shaniece Thompson. She is staying with a friend, she told me, while she waits for her social worker to find her a foster home. If I wanted to meet with her, I'd have to come right away, because she had somewhere else she had to be at two o'clock. It's already 1:20pm according to my cell phone, and I gather my clipboard, my packet, and several pens and swing open the car door. I usually allow at least an hour to meet with youth, ask them questions, test their math and English knowledge, and have their foster parents sign medical consent forms. Today's meeting will have to be quick.

Shaniece is waiting outside for me, dressed in a long summer dress in brilliant pinks, oranges and yellows. She smiles at me and I introduce myself, sticking out my hand to shake hers. I notice that her short nails are painted purple. She is walking, breathing, talking color and she shines against the bright day and the dark circumstances.

"I'm sorry for the mess," she says softly to me as we walk through the living room, stepping over plastic toys, discarded shoes and coloring books. She briefly introduces me to her friend, the girl who took her in, and I wave from across the room. A baby is crying in another room, and two little girls fight over the remote control on the tattered couch.

We step into the room where she is staying, a blow-up mattress next to a washer and dryer. In the corner, a large bookcase is staggering under the weight of dozens and dozens of Spanish textbooks. Shaniece motions to the mattress, and I gingerly lower myself down.

I start by introducing the Independent Living Program, and explaining what she would learn once enrolled. I tell her that my agency works with the Department of Children and Family Services, and that our goal is to help foster youth transition out of the system successfully. She nods, twirling a strand of her braided hair.

"So what I'm going to do with you today is complete an intake packet, and then go through a few tests just to see where you're performing academically. Does that sound okay?" I ask.

She nods again.

"Alright. I'll start with the intake packet then, which should take about 20 minutes." I begin with the questions, standard things like where she attends school, whom to contact in case of an emergency, and whether she has an email address. She sits on the edge of the air mattress, opening and closing her cell phone, and smoothing the front of her dress again and again.

Toward the middle of the packet, I ask her who she admires most in the world. She is quiet.

"I mean, anyone you look up to or respect?" I prompt her. "It can be someone you know, or a sports star or celebrity. Anyone."

She looks at me. "To be honest, I would have to say myself." She nods. "Yeah, definitely myself."

I get this answer a lot. A few kids will name a rapper or basketball player, a few more than that will say a grandmother or older sibling. But more often than not, the teenagers I meet don't look up to anyone.

"Why?" I ask. "Why yourself?"

"Becaaaause. I look at other people, people who are doing real good but have never had struggles. And then look at me, and everything I've been through."

I think about her best friend sitting in the living room, 17 years old and taking care of 3 kids, preparing them lunch on a Tuesday afternoon while they watch cartoons. I can't imagine that none of the people Shaniece knows have struggles, haven't battled hardships. But perhaps they are dim complaints next to Shaniece's problems.

That's the strange part of my job, the few hours I step into these kids' lives with only a fraction of the story. I don't know what happened to Shaniece's biological parents, or why she was removed from their home. I know she was recently forced to leave her grandmother's home, but I'm unsure if the grandma pushed her out, if the living conditions were deemed unfit by DCFS, or if her grandmother passed away.

Shaniece may end up enrolling in our Life Skills class; I may get to know her and find the answers to these questions. I may have the opportunity to help her a little more, connect her with other resources. Or she may not return my calls after this. She could easily go AWOL, her social worker unable to track her down. She may just be a girl I met briefly on a hot day one summer, another name in a folder on my computer that contains hundreds of names.

I always resist the urge to hug these kids goodbye as I gather my things and leave, knowing what I do. I press my card into her hand, and urge her one more time to call me if she needs anything.

"Thanks," she says. "Thanks for coming all the way out here."

And then she waves and closes the gate behind her.

A Year in La-La Land.

A year ago today, I moved to Los Angeles.

At the time, the move felt like a cop-out. I had spent seven years transversing the globe, seeking out new people, new cultures and new experiences. I managed to build a life and community in Seattle, backpack and hitchhike across southern Africa, volunteer in Argentina, and teach in Korea. If I lived within 120 miles of my hometown, would I still have those kind of fulfilling experiences? Would there be adventure and challenges?

Turns out, more than I could imagine. I feel like over the last few years, through all this travel and excitement, I had started to discover the person I'm going to be. Here in LA, I've actually had the chance to start being that person. Through battles with malaria, facing bandits as I crossed borders, meeting street kids, becoming a teacher, climbing the Great Wall and hearing the rush of Iguazu Falls, forming bonds and saying so many goodbyes - I had uncovered the kind of person I wanted to be, the things and people I valued most in life. Now it was time to apply it.

Los Angeles, like most big cities in the world, is a place of deep contrast. It is a town of azure swimming pools and bloody gang wars. Of illiterate children and sweet young starlets. Golden beaches and the salty smell of the green sea. Dilapidated houses and the powdery gust of car exhaust. And in my year here, I've had the incredible opportunity to witness it all.

I moved to Los Angeles because of a job offer with an investment firm. I had sworn off LA years before, sure that it was nothing but a grimy city swarming with frivolous actors/models/producers/DJs. But the job sounded exciting, and so a city that had always seemed to have nothing to offer me, now sparkled with opportunity.

In the six months I worked for the investment firm, I lunched at the Polo Lounge in the Beverly Hills Hotel. I met clients for cocktails in the Four Seasons. I had meetings with Congressional staffers. I sat next to Dr. Phil and attended an event at the home of the couple who owns Fiji water. It was surreal, and so LA. I half-expected Shelley Long to appear at any moment in her Wilderness Girl outfit, brandishing a cigarette holder and a dirty martini.

But it wasn't what I set out to do with my life, and I didn't feel like I was utilizing any of the lessons I had learned. With this realization, I accepted a job as an Outreach Advisor in South LA, working with foster youth in neighborhoods like Watts, Compton and Inglewood. The six months that followed showed me the underbelly of the city, the juxtaposition to Beverly Hills and Hollywood. I witnessed convenience store robberies, dealt with absentee teenage fathers and county budget cuts. Acronyms like DCFS and CSW and TRC became part of my vocabulary (Department of Children and Family Services, Children's Social Worker and Transition Resource Center).

And I started writing again. I thought moving to LA meant settling down. I thought it meant I wouldn't have any more stories to tell. But the stories are there. Clusters, bundles, multitudes of stories. Some of them mine, and some of them others. In many places, those stories overlap, like the unnamed fault lines below the surface of Los Angeles, always threatening to swallow my new home whole.

It seems a fitting time to share some of those stories here. I hope you'll keep reading.