I'm Major Jackson, and this is the slowdown.

In the summer between 6 and 7th grades, my algebra teacher employed a handful of students

to turn vacant lots into community gardens, my first job.

With kids from school, I swung a double-edged weed cutter and chopped down overgrown stalks.

I bagged dust and crushed it trash.

When we were done, the raised lot between brohouses left standing looked like a missing tooth.

I stared up at the ghost of a staircase on an adjacent wall, and imagined the family

that once lived there.

But then, we planted decorative trees, potted raised beds with rich soil and flowers,

and constructed a wooden walkway where once stood a blighted marker of social neglect,

a treasured communal park emerged.

When a friday, I was formally handed my first paycheck.

The cellophane window of an envelope showed my name.

I experienced the gratification of helping to transform my own neighborhood and of having

earned my own money, the outcome of my body physically working and sweating in the sun.

Over dinner.

I boasted how I was going to buy a new pair of Air Jordan sneakers, my mother frowned.

On Monday, she took me to the bank where I learned about interest, which felt foreign and

magical.

What?

You mean to tell me, my money works like I do, but just by sitting in your bank, I walked

out with a blue savings book.

...