2013 RHHP Thanksgiving dinner
11 years ago
Monday, December 29, 2008
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
there's no place like home for the holidays...
I've been working really hard at not referring to my parents' house as home, because it's not really my home anymore. When people in Baltimore ask what I'm doing for Christmas, I force myself to say "I'm going to my parents' house", because that's what it is. I don't live there anymore, I don't even usually sleep in the room that used to be mine anymore. I still have a lot of crap there, but it's really more of a holding ground before I get around to selling it (the stuff, not the house. I don't think my parents would appreciate me selling their house).
To be fair, though, it isn't really like Baltimore is home, either. As much as I love RHHP (the Reservoir Hill House of Peace, the awesome community where I live), it isn't exactly home. RHHP is very much a transitional community, in that it is a community that is constantly in transition, made up of people constantly transitioning. There are currently 5 volunteers living there (4 in Mennonite Voluntary Service, including me, and one in the Brethren Voluntary Service), 1 asylum seeker and 4 asylees (basically refugees who didn't go through a second country before coming to the U.S.) and 4 renters (people who live in the house and participate in the community, but aren't asylum seekers or refugees or volunteers). We all share meals and cups of tea and have conversations and teach each other to cook our favorite foods, but everyone knows no one is really ever there forever. Most of the volunteers are there for one year. The asylum seekers are there because, for them, it is free housing while they apply for asylum, and then cheap housing while they wait for their families to come to the U.S. The renters tend to be more long-term, but I don't think anyone really imagines themselves there forever.
For the asylum seekers especially, RHHP is not home. We have 3 people from Cameroon, one from Ethiopia, and one from Iraq. Last night as I was making cheesecake for work, the asylee from Iraq, was making his dinner. One of the asylees from Cameroon, came in and asked how we were and what we were doing. "I'm cutting onions," he said. "That's why I left my home. I come here and I cut onions. In Iraq I had 10 bodyguards and 2 cooks. Here, I cut onions." He said it to be funny, and we all laughed, but there was also a certain bitterness and sorrow to it. The asylee from Iraq is a doctor, in Iraq he was in charge of over 100 hospitals. Here he works off an on as a translator while he struggles to pass exams to become a resident in a hospital so he can practice medicine again. He has been in the U.S. for 2 years, and has been waiting for his family to come since July. He has 5 children, including a 2 and a half year old daughter. He is Muslim, so I don't think Christmas without his family will be especially hard. But I know it has been incredibly hard for him celebrating Eid, Ramadan, and other holidays alone. He is the only Muslim in a house of Christians. We talk about traditions and share meals and stories with each other, but the fact remains that he is here and his family is there and he has no idea when or if he'll see them again.
Christmas comes with a certain bitterness at work, too. We extended out clients' curfews for Christmas so that they could spend time with their families. This has been met with mixed emotions- of course people are glad for the extra time, but it is also a reminder that they are in their 40s or 50s and are subject to curfews, to room checks, to chore inspections. And of course, not every client has family in the area, and not every client with family in the area has a good relationship with them.
Who wrote that home is where they have to take you in when you show up? Was that Frost? We read it in my American lit from 1900- 1950 class, but I broke my back that semester and don't remember a lot of specifics. I do remember that line, though. It was about a couple living on a farm, and a man who used to work for them shows up, and they can't turn him away. I think the husband says to the wife something like "Why doesn't he go home?" and the wife says something like "Home is where they can't turn you away. This is home to him." And I guess for many of the people in my life, that's what the shelter or RHHP are right now. It's not home, exactly, but it's what you've got right now. It's where your stuff is, it's where you eat and sleep and wash your clothes. But isn't home more than that? I hope one day it is.
To be fair, though, it isn't really like Baltimore is home, either. As much as I love RHHP (the Reservoir Hill House of Peace, the awesome community where I live), it isn't exactly home. RHHP is very much a transitional community, in that it is a community that is constantly in transition, made up of people constantly transitioning. There are currently 5 volunteers living there (4 in Mennonite Voluntary Service, including me, and one in the Brethren Voluntary Service), 1 asylum seeker and 4 asylees (basically refugees who didn't go through a second country before coming to the U.S.) and 4 renters (people who live in the house and participate in the community, but aren't asylum seekers or refugees or volunteers). We all share meals and cups of tea and have conversations and teach each other to cook our favorite foods, but everyone knows no one is really ever there forever. Most of the volunteers are there for one year. The asylum seekers are there because, for them, it is free housing while they apply for asylum, and then cheap housing while they wait for their families to come to the U.S. The renters tend to be more long-term, but I don't think anyone really imagines themselves there forever.
For the asylum seekers especially, RHHP is not home. We have 3 people from Cameroon, one from Ethiopia, and one from Iraq. Last night as I was making cheesecake for work, the asylee from Iraq, was making his dinner. One of the asylees from Cameroon, came in and asked how we were and what we were doing. "I'm cutting onions," he said. "That's why I left my home. I come here and I cut onions. In Iraq I had 10 bodyguards and 2 cooks. Here, I cut onions." He said it to be funny, and we all laughed, but there was also a certain bitterness and sorrow to it. The asylee from Iraq is a doctor, in Iraq he was in charge of over 100 hospitals. Here he works off an on as a translator while he struggles to pass exams to become a resident in a hospital so he can practice medicine again. He has been in the U.S. for 2 years, and has been waiting for his family to come since July. He has 5 children, including a 2 and a half year old daughter. He is Muslim, so I don't think Christmas without his family will be especially hard. But I know it has been incredibly hard for him celebrating Eid, Ramadan, and other holidays alone. He is the only Muslim in a house of Christians. We talk about traditions and share meals and stories with each other, but the fact remains that he is here and his family is there and he has no idea when or if he'll see them again.
Christmas comes with a certain bitterness at work, too. We extended out clients' curfews for Christmas so that they could spend time with their families. This has been met with mixed emotions- of course people are glad for the extra time, but it is also a reminder that they are in their 40s or 50s and are subject to curfews, to room checks, to chore inspections. And of course, not every client has family in the area, and not every client with family in the area has a good relationship with them.
Who wrote that home is where they have to take you in when you show up? Was that Frost? We read it in my American lit from 1900- 1950 class, but I broke my back that semester and don't remember a lot of specifics. I do remember that line, though. It was about a couple living on a farm, and a man who used to work for them shows up, and they can't turn him away. I think the husband says to the wife something like "Why doesn't he go home?" and the wife says something like "Home is where they can't turn you away. This is home to him." And I guess for many of the people in my life, that's what the shelter or RHHP are right now. It's not home, exactly, but it's what you've got right now. It's where your stuff is, it's where you eat and sleep and wash your clothes. But isn't home more than that? I hope one day it is.
Friday, December 19, 2008
I'd smoke crack, too, if that were my year.
We got two new clients this week.
I do all the intake interviews for the shelter. I sit down and take about an hour to two hours to get the medical, mental health, substance abuse, and homelessness histories of each new client. On Tuesday, I was doing the intake of a new male. He seemed very nice, polite, and intelligent. It wasn't until after he left and I was putting all of his information into the computer that I saw that he is a registered sex offender. Against children.
Now, I know we're supposed to love everyone, and as a Christian, I know that I have given up the right to judge people and to hate people. But I can't help but think about how if I were on the other side, if I were working with the children this guy has molested, how I would undoubtedly allow myself to hate him. He would be this abstract idea to me, just some evil monster. But I'm not working the kids, I'm working with the man, and it is my job to find him housing, health care, mental health care (LOTS of that...), substance abuse recovery programs, and anything else I can do for him. I'm here to serve him, to meet his needs, and to do it with love and respect. Like it or not.
Today I did another intake, this time for a woman. She is 41 years old, a recovering crack addict. She has been using crack since she was 18 years old. Her longest period clean was a year, and the last time she used was December 2 of this year. In April her mother in law died suddenly, in June she miscarried one of the twin babies she was carrying, in July her husband committed suicide, she lost her job, and became homeless, in December she found out she was HIV positive, and this week she gave birth to the other twin, a boy. He weighed 3 pounds, 6 ounces at birth. He is in the ICU, born addicted to crack. When he was born, child protective services took him into custody because they decided a homeless crack addict HIV positive prostitute wouldn't be the best parent. When they took the baby, she said she would kill herself, so they moved her to the psych ward. They said she couldn't have her baby because she was suicidal, and she was suicidal because she couldn't have her baby.
She was released into the custody of Project PLASE yesterday. I spent 2 hours this morning listening to her talk about her addiction, prostitution, the devastation of losing her mother in law, her child, and her husband, and the helplessness of learning her HIV status. I had to pinch myself as hard as I could to stop myself from crying in front her (I don't know why pinching stops me from crying, it just does).
I have never in my life wanted to help a stranger as much as I want to help this woman. I want her to stay clean, to learn everything she can about living with (not dying from) HIV. I want her to get housing, to get custody of her child (who currently tests negative for HIV, but we can't know for sure until he is 6 months old) and to be HAPPY. But I will do the same things for her that I will for the pedophile. I will work just as hard for him as I will for her, I'll pull every string I can get my hands on for both of them.
Love is a strange thing. Like it or not.
I do all the intake interviews for the shelter. I sit down and take about an hour to two hours to get the medical, mental health, substance abuse, and homelessness histories of each new client. On Tuesday, I was doing the intake of a new male. He seemed very nice, polite, and intelligent. It wasn't until after he left and I was putting all of his information into the computer that I saw that he is a registered sex offender. Against children.
Now, I know we're supposed to love everyone, and as a Christian, I know that I have given up the right to judge people and to hate people. But I can't help but think about how if I were on the other side, if I were working with the children this guy has molested, how I would undoubtedly allow myself to hate him. He would be this abstract idea to me, just some evil monster. But I'm not working the kids, I'm working with the man, and it is my job to find him housing, health care, mental health care (LOTS of that...), substance abuse recovery programs, and anything else I can do for him. I'm here to serve him, to meet his needs, and to do it with love and respect. Like it or not.
Today I did another intake, this time for a woman. She is 41 years old, a recovering crack addict. She has been using crack since she was 18 years old. Her longest period clean was a year, and the last time she used was December 2 of this year. In April her mother in law died suddenly, in June she miscarried one of the twin babies she was carrying, in July her husband committed suicide, she lost her job, and became homeless, in December she found out she was HIV positive, and this week she gave birth to the other twin, a boy. He weighed 3 pounds, 6 ounces at birth. He is in the ICU, born addicted to crack. When he was born, child protective services took him into custody because they decided a homeless crack addict HIV positive prostitute wouldn't be the best parent. When they took the baby, she said she would kill herself, so they moved her to the psych ward. They said she couldn't have her baby because she was suicidal, and she was suicidal because she couldn't have her baby.
She was released into the custody of Project PLASE yesterday. I spent 2 hours this morning listening to her talk about her addiction, prostitution, the devastation of losing her mother in law, her child, and her husband, and the helplessness of learning her HIV status. I had to pinch myself as hard as I could to stop myself from crying in front her (I don't know why pinching stops me from crying, it just does).
I have never in my life wanted to help a stranger as much as I want to help this woman. I want her to stay clean, to learn everything she can about living with (not dying from) HIV. I want her to get housing, to get custody of her child (who currently tests negative for HIV, but we can't know for sure until he is 6 months old) and to be HAPPY. But I will do the same things for her that I will for the pedophile. I will work just as hard for him as I will for her, I'll pull every string I can get my hands on for both of them.
Love is a strange thing. Like it or not.
Tuesday, December 09, 2008
give me all your books. please.
it happened sometime while making my senior show. something about spending 2- 9 hours a day drawing dead babies kind of depressed me (go figure) and i lost the ability to read. well, that is an overstatement, maybe. but i went from devouring all kinds of books- classics, political commentaries, poetry, novels, biographies- to reading, well... nothing.
lucky for me, i didn't have a lot of classes that required reading my senior year. a few short articles on Buddhist pacifism, an analysis of a video of me dancing, comments on other people's art... i could do that. but for some reason, anything that demanded more intellectual involvement than a collection of Get Fuzzy strips was just too much.
it;s gradually gotten better. i got really, really into travel books this summer (bill bryson, ayun halliday, j. maarten troost, rory stewart- would recommend to anyone) and, since moving to baltimore, have mostly been re-reading old favorites. i have to read before i go to bed; if i don't, i'm pretty sure the world will implode. i'm still a little bit uncomfortable sleeping by myself in this big room in this even bigger house, listening to the sounds of fights and sirens and gunshots, so i often read for an hour or two before i can fall asleep here. and i'll be honest: one can only read the collected works of e. e. cummings so many times in a three month period, and i have reached that point.
i have tried multiple times to get through this huge stack of liberation theology books, and i've started a tale of two cities about eight times, and the grapes or wrath about 47 times. and it isn't that i don't want to read these things- i do- but i just can't right now. after hearing horror stories of clients' lives at work, and dealing with fights and drug use (clients', not mine) and so much anger and frustration and poverty and cultural differences and barriers.... well, books of get fuzzy comics start to look pretty good.
but my friend bryan runck is really, really smart, and most stuff he says is true, and he and i used to talk a lot about how great art (and literature) doesn't need to be depressing to be good. a lot of great art is born in or because or in spite of pain, but there are some great works that are absolutely saturated with joy. there are a lot of really awful works that are about joy- or trying to be about joy- but that doesn't mean that ALL joyful art is bad. it's harder to say something profound about happiness. it's harder to make someone laugh and still have substance than to make someone cry with substance. and just because the big stack of books i have by my bed is depressing, it doesn't mean i have to read them and be depressed all the time. i'd rather read something and laugh.
i promise to read those books i have saved up, i'm just not at a point where i can right now. right now what i need are some books- GOOD books, with substance and charecters and things that matter- that aren't about death, loss, rape, poverty, powerlessness, or addiction. i know that they're out there. so why don't you think of the greatest funny book you know and tell me what the title is so i can read it? better yet, why don't you buy it for me or send me your copy? i would really appreciate it. and when i'm done, maybe i'll make you a happy drawing to thank you.
i've only made about 4 happy drawings in my life, but maybe i'm up to the challenge if it means getting some books.
lucky for me, i didn't have a lot of classes that required reading my senior year. a few short articles on Buddhist pacifism, an analysis of a video of me dancing, comments on other people's art... i could do that. but for some reason, anything that demanded more intellectual involvement than a collection of Get Fuzzy strips was just too much.
it;s gradually gotten better. i got really, really into travel books this summer (bill bryson, ayun halliday, j. maarten troost, rory stewart- would recommend to anyone) and, since moving to baltimore, have mostly been re-reading old favorites. i have to read before i go to bed; if i don't, i'm pretty sure the world will implode. i'm still a little bit uncomfortable sleeping by myself in this big room in this even bigger house, listening to the sounds of fights and sirens and gunshots, so i often read for an hour or two before i can fall asleep here. and i'll be honest: one can only read the collected works of e. e. cummings so many times in a three month period, and i have reached that point.
i have tried multiple times to get through this huge stack of liberation theology books, and i've started a tale of two cities about eight times, and the grapes or wrath about 47 times. and it isn't that i don't want to read these things- i do- but i just can't right now. after hearing horror stories of clients' lives at work, and dealing with fights and drug use (clients', not mine) and so much anger and frustration and poverty and cultural differences and barriers.... well, books of get fuzzy comics start to look pretty good.
but my friend bryan runck is really, really smart, and most stuff he says is true, and he and i used to talk a lot about how great art (and literature) doesn't need to be depressing to be good. a lot of great art is born in or because or in spite of pain, but there are some great works that are absolutely saturated with joy. there are a lot of really awful works that are about joy- or trying to be about joy- but that doesn't mean that ALL joyful art is bad. it's harder to say something profound about happiness. it's harder to make someone laugh and still have substance than to make someone cry with substance. and just because the big stack of books i have by my bed is depressing, it doesn't mean i have to read them and be depressed all the time. i'd rather read something and laugh.
i promise to read those books i have saved up, i'm just not at a point where i can right now. right now what i need are some books- GOOD books, with substance and charecters and things that matter- that aren't about death, loss, rape, poverty, powerlessness, or addiction. i know that they're out there. so why don't you think of the greatest funny book you know and tell me what the title is so i can read it? better yet, why don't you buy it for me or send me your copy? i would really appreciate it. and when i'm done, maybe i'll make you a happy drawing to thank you.
i've only made about 4 happy drawings in my life, but maybe i'm up to the challenge if it means getting some books.
Tuesday, December 02, 2008
race
I have a lot of issues with politics, I'll say that right now. I don't mean with specific politicians or policies,(though I certainly have those too), I mean with the whole system. With all the assumptions and destruction and empire and killing and greed. So I write the following not as any kind of political endorsement or criticism of anyone. It's just some stuff that's been bugging me.
I'm excited that Barack Obama is our president elect. Mostly because he's Kenyan, but also because electing an African American president is a huge deal, and a very exciting thing. (N.B. I am aware that, biologically, he is as white as he is black. He describes himself as black, so I will, too. Race is a messy, complicated, elaborate and beautiful thing that I'm not about to try to dissect here). Anyway, being in inner city Baltimore when the first black president was elected was pretty great. The only white people in my neighborhood live in my house, and I'm the only white person where I work. When I take the bus, I'm the only white person on it (this has been true of EVERY BUS RIDE except for when I've gotten on with one of my white housemates). The excitement and energy of Obama's election was almost tangible, both on election day and the day after. "We did it!" everyone was saying. "We've arrived!" they said.
And on a lot of levels, I agree. CENTURIES of struggle led up to this election. It represents huge changes in the minds of many Americans. And I hesitate to say this as a rich white girl from the suburbs spending one short year in the big bad inner city, but it's been bugging me, so I'm going to. The struggle against racism is not over. We have not arrived. The black community has not arrived. Racism is alive and well, and (I think) the election of Obama needs to fuel the fight against racism, not be a signal to slow down.
If you ask me, the fight against racism will be over when racism is studied as a historical term, not a current phenomenon. Black people make up about 12% of the U.S. population right now. We, as a country, will have "arrived" when black people make up 12% of the seats in congress, 12% of the people in prison, 12% of the homeless population, 12% of students attending college. When 12% of the people on death row are black, and when 12% of people who die in gang violence, and when 12% of police officers, teachers, social workers, doctors, lawyers, and people in the armed services are black, then you can talk to me about slowing down. When 12% of the adhesive bandages reflect African rather than European skin tones, when 12% of make-up made by cover girl, maybeline, and all the others are made to match African skin tones, and when 12% of the hair care products on the shelves at target are made for African American hair, then maybe we can talk about this so-called "arrival".
Being white in this neighborhood and at my job has been, at various times, hilarious, hard, scary, and confusing. I don't think I'll ever get used to the things men yell at me as I walk home from work (anything from "Hey! A white girl!" to "what the fuck are you doing in this neighborhood??" and worse), and I don't know if I'll ever have a good response to those things. What am I doing here? I'm living here. I'm working here. I'm trying to be a part of and build community, to learn about poverty and race and homelessness and God. I'm here to experience this place. And that's just it, isn't it? It's an experience for me. Novel. Temporary. No matter how many friends I make here, how many times I eat chitterlings, no matter how long I stay here, I'll always be an outsider. So maybe I don't have any right, saying these things about race and struggle and accomplishment. I am, in all likelihood, as much a part of the problem as I am a part of the solution. And I don't know, I don't know what to do with that. I can't help where I come from, I can't help the way I talk, where I went to school, or what color my face is any more than my neighbors and colleges and clients can help those things in their lives. But what do we do? Ignore the differences? Embrace them? Laugh at them? Try to have them explained to us? Right now I stumbled through my days, doing any and all of these things depending on the situation. None seem to fix it, none are perfect. But neither are any of us.
I'm excited that Barack Obama is our president elect. Mostly because he's Kenyan, but also because electing an African American president is a huge deal, and a very exciting thing. (N.B. I am aware that, biologically, he is as white as he is black. He describes himself as black, so I will, too. Race is a messy, complicated, elaborate and beautiful thing that I'm not about to try to dissect here). Anyway, being in inner city Baltimore when the first black president was elected was pretty great. The only white people in my neighborhood live in my house, and I'm the only white person where I work. When I take the bus, I'm the only white person on it (this has been true of EVERY BUS RIDE except for when I've gotten on with one of my white housemates). The excitement and energy of Obama's election was almost tangible, both on election day and the day after. "We did it!" everyone was saying. "We've arrived!" they said.
And on a lot of levels, I agree. CENTURIES of struggle led up to this election. It represents huge changes in the minds of many Americans. And I hesitate to say this as a rich white girl from the suburbs spending one short year in the big bad inner city, but it's been bugging me, so I'm going to. The struggle against racism is not over. We have not arrived. The black community has not arrived. Racism is alive and well, and (I think) the election of Obama needs to fuel the fight against racism, not be a signal to slow down.
If you ask me, the fight against racism will be over when racism is studied as a historical term, not a current phenomenon. Black people make up about 12% of the U.S. population right now. We, as a country, will have "arrived" when black people make up 12% of the seats in congress, 12% of the people in prison, 12% of the homeless population, 12% of students attending college. When 12% of the people on death row are black, and when 12% of people who die in gang violence, and when 12% of police officers, teachers, social workers, doctors, lawyers, and people in the armed services are black, then you can talk to me about slowing down. When 12% of the adhesive bandages reflect African rather than European skin tones, when 12% of make-up made by cover girl, maybeline, and all the others are made to match African skin tones, and when 12% of the hair care products on the shelves at target are made for African American hair, then maybe we can talk about this so-called "arrival".
Being white in this neighborhood and at my job has been, at various times, hilarious, hard, scary, and confusing. I don't think I'll ever get used to the things men yell at me as I walk home from work (anything from "Hey! A white girl!" to "what the fuck are you doing in this neighborhood??" and worse), and I don't know if I'll ever have a good response to those things. What am I doing here? I'm living here. I'm working here. I'm trying to be a part of and build community, to learn about poverty and race and homelessness and God. I'm here to experience this place. And that's just it, isn't it? It's an experience for me. Novel. Temporary. No matter how many friends I make here, how many times I eat chitterlings, no matter how long I stay here, I'll always be an outsider. So maybe I don't have any right, saying these things about race and struggle and accomplishment. I am, in all likelihood, as much a part of the problem as I am a part of the solution. And I don't know, I don't know what to do with that. I can't help where I come from, I can't help the way I talk, where I went to school, or what color my face is any more than my neighbors and colleges and clients can help those things in their lives. But what do we do? Ignore the differences? Embrace them? Laugh at them? Try to have them explained to us? Right now I stumbled through my days, doing any and all of these things depending on the situation. None seem to fix it, none are perfect. But neither are any of us.
Sunday, November 30, 2008
it's not "ha ha" funny. peculiar, i guess.
the more i hang out with people who have strong opinions on things- religion, politics, sci fi, etc- the more i'm struck by how much people agree. everyone who is extremely passionate about something, it seems, has the same core belief: that if everyone in the world was like them, the world would be great.
i hang out with a lot of pacifists, and they all seem to think that if they could simply get EVERYONE to be pacifists, the world would be pretty sweet. pacifism is one of those things that's a little bit tough to do when you're only one of a very few in a whole sea of people who think violence is a great (or at least acceptable) answer to most stuff. tough- but not impossible.
same with my socialist and communist friends. the problem, it seems, according to them, is not with socialism or communism (or capitalism to my capitalist friends, or democracy to my democratic friends) but with people who refuse to accept and work within the system. communism fails because people screw it up, they argue, not because communism is flawed.
i've been hanging out with more anarchists, and they seem to agree. the problem isn't even really capitalism or democracy, but the people who refuse to let go of capitalism or democracy.
and i do this too, no doubt. it's been pretty painful trying to find a faith community (or any community) i can feel at home in. basically i want a church that studies the Bible, but wants to end the Israeli occupation of Palestine. i want a church that believes in the laying on of hands for healing, but refuses to have an american flag at the altar (or anywhere else in the church). i want a church that practices social justice and encourages people to eat local, organic, and fair trade food, but also welcomes and loves people who believe the only food worth eating is fried in bacon fat. twice. i want a church that eats fair trade local organic bacon fat fried food. in short, i want a church made up of people exactly like me, who think like me, and want to do the things that i want to do. and that's just not right.
we are a body with many parts and many members for a reason. i think that applies to humanity as a whole as much as it applies to the church. it's easy to find people who think like i think, who do the things i do, who want what i want, but it just isn't right. jesus hung out with the prostitutes, lepers, and the poor people no one else wanted to hang out with. but he also hung out with the tax collectors, the rich people no one else wanted to hang out with. and he also hung out with the sadducees and pharisees, the self-righteous religious people no one wanted to hang out with. and sometimes (mostly to piss people off, i think) he hung with all of them together.
so here's the thing. i've found lots of churches that are willing to hang out with the homeless and the HIV positive and refugees, but they don't want to hang out with the conservatives and the people in the military. and i've found churches that are willing to hang out with republicans and televangelists and the wealthy, but they don't want to hang out with the anarchists and the homosexuals. and more than anything i've found churches that want to hang out with the white upper middle class democrat suburbanites, but don't want to hang out with ANYONE else.
so i think i'll throw a party. i'll invite my anarchist friends, and my pentecostal christian friends. i'll sit my gay friends next to my friends who protest at abortion clinics. my hiv positive friends will bring the dip and my vegan friends will dumpster dive for some bread to go with it. my parents will be invited, and i'll sit them between a creationist christian and a few mennonites, just to see how that goes. i'll have to strategically place the pacifists, of course, to try to prevent knife fights, and what food i serve will be tough. how do i feel the southern baptists and the freegans together? some people don't drink, some won't come if there is no alcohol. what kind of entertainment will i have? naked twister? a meditation hour? a documentary about the war in iraq?
maybe i'll just set a box of kittens loose in the room and lock the door from the outside.
expect your invitation soon.
i hang out with a lot of pacifists, and they all seem to think that if they could simply get EVERYONE to be pacifists, the world would be pretty sweet. pacifism is one of those things that's a little bit tough to do when you're only one of a very few in a whole sea of people who think violence is a great (or at least acceptable) answer to most stuff. tough- but not impossible.
same with my socialist and communist friends. the problem, it seems, according to them, is not with socialism or communism (or capitalism to my capitalist friends, or democracy to my democratic friends) but with people who refuse to accept and work within the system. communism fails because people screw it up, they argue, not because communism is flawed.
i've been hanging out with more anarchists, and they seem to agree. the problem isn't even really capitalism or democracy, but the people who refuse to let go of capitalism or democracy.
and i do this too, no doubt. it's been pretty painful trying to find a faith community (or any community) i can feel at home in. basically i want a church that studies the Bible, but wants to end the Israeli occupation of Palestine. i want a church that believes in the laying on of hands for healing, but refuses to have an american flag at the altar (or anywhere else in the church). i want a church that practices social justice and encourages people to eat local, organic, and fair trade food, but also welcomes and loves people who believe the only food worth eating is fried in bacon fat. twice. i want a church that eats fair trade local organic bacon fat fried food. in short, i want a church made up of people exactly like me, who think like me, and want to do the things that i want to do. and that's just not right.
we are a body with many parts and many members for a reason. i think that applies to humanity as a whole as much as it applies to the church. it's easy to find people who think like i think, who do the things i do, who want what i want, but it just isn't right. jesus hung out with the prostitutes, lepers, and the poor people no one else wanted to hang out with. but he also hung out with the tax collectors, the rich people no one else wanted to hang out with. and he also hung out with the sadducees and pharisees, the self-righteous religious people no one wanted to hang out with. and sometimes (mostly to piss people off, i think) he hung with all of them together.
so here's the thing. i've found lots of churches that are willing to hang out with the homeless and the HIV positive and refugees, but they don't want to hang out with the conservatives and the people in the military. and i've found churches that are willing to hang out with republicans and televangelists and the wealthy, but they don't want to hang out with the anarchists and the homosexuals. and more than anything i've found churches that want to hang out with the white upper middle class democrat suburbanites, but don't want to hang out with ANYONE else.
so i think i'll throw a party. i'll invite my anarchist friends, and my pentecostal christian friends. i'll sit my gay friends next to my friends who protest at abortion clinics. my hiv positive friends will bring the dip and my vegan friends will dumpster dive for some bread to go with it. my parents will be invited, and i'll sit them between a creationist christian and a few mennonites, just to see how that goes. i'll have to strategically place the pacifists, of course, to try to prevent knife fights, and what food i serve will be tough. how do i feel the southern baptists and the freegans together? some people don't drink, some won't come if there is no alcohol. what kind of entertainment will i have? naked twister? a meditation hour? a documentary about the war in iraq?
maybe i'll just set a box of kittens loose in the room and lock the door from the outside.
expect your invitation soon.
Thursday, November 20, 2008
poop. poopity poop poop poop.
so. i get to work today, and ALL THREE of the toilets in the building have overflowed. like, into the hallways. and the BATHTUBS were backed up, too, and the dirty water and ALL THE POOP from the toilets were somehow traveling back up through the pipes and FLOWING INTO THE BATHTUBS as well as out onto the floor. so there was POOP on the floor, WATER AND PEE EVERYWHERE, and BATHTUBS FULL OF WATER PEE AND POOOOOOPPP. it was SO GROSS. we called the plumbers AGAIN (they were out here about 2 weeks ago) and he said there is a huge problem (no shit! no pun intended) and he has to get all these special equipment to find out what's going on and fix it. it involves sending a metal pipe thing with a camera on it through the system. that is one video i do NOT want to see.
so as the plumber is doing his thing, the fire alarm starts going off. we check to see if there is a fire, and there isn't, so we reset the alarm. and the it goes off again. so we reset it. so it goes off again. so we reset it. and that's what has been going on FOR THE LAST HOUR. and now the guy from the security system is here, and he thinks when all hell broke lose in the water system, some water (AND PROBABLY POOOOOOP) got into the fire/alarm system, and is making it freak out.
so as the fire alarm is going off, the fire department keeps coming out, and we're trying to call them to tell them that it is just a false alarm and there is no fire, just a lot of poop, but every time the alarm goes off, the phones cut out. because that's what you want in an emergency. no way to contact the outside.
when i said i didn't want a desk job, that i wanted to be involved in direct services to underprivileged people, this isn't really what i had in mind. i imagined more emotional fulfilment, more life changes, heart wrenching stories, and FAR LESS POOP.
so as the plumber is doing his thing, the fire alarm starts going off. we check to see if there is a fire, and there isn't, so we reset the alarm. and the it goes off again. so we reset it. so it goes off again. so we reset it. and that's what has been going on FOR THE LAST HOUR. and now the guy from the security system is here, and he thinks when all hell broke lose in the water system, some water (AND PROBABLY POOOOOOP) got into the fire/alarm system, and is making it freak out.
so as the fire alarm is going off, the fire department keeps coming out, and we're trying to call them to tell them that it is just a false alarm and there is no fire, just a lot of poop, but every time the alarm goes off, the phones cut out. because that's what you want in an emergency. no way to contact the outside.
when i said i didn't want a desk job, that i wanted to be involved in direct services to underprivileged people, this isn't really what i had in mind. i imagined more emotional fulfilment, more life changes, heart wrenching stories, and FAR LESS POOP.
Monday, November 10, 2008
how does a pacifist celebrate veterans' day?
every one of the men at the shelter where i work is a veteran. both of my grandfathers were veterans. both of my brothers-in-law are veterans. so how do i celebrate them and their lives when i disagree with the entity that made them veterans?
it has sort of come up before. this summer i was all ready to stick my "when Jesus said love your enemies, he probably meant don't kill them" sticker on my car, but decided against it when i realized that said car would spend most of the summer in front of a veteran's home- a veteran who did NOT need to let me stay there. when questions about my involvement with the mennonite church have come up, it's been impossible to describe my attraction to the faith without mentioning the fact that it's a historic peace church. there has never been any kind of argument or fight (which is good, since i, you know, CAN'T fight) but it's something that has been in the undercurrent of my interactions with my brothers in law; it hasn't really ever come up with any of our residents because i don't think they know that mennonites are pacifists, and it hasn't been an issue with my grandfathers because they both died before i knew what a pacifist was. but one of my brothers in law was a marine, and the other was in the air force, and both served active duty abroad.
the issue of veterans' day reminds me of something my awesome friend brian (http://brianjgorman.wordpress.com/)'s genius dad (http://michaeljgorman.net/) said in a lecture he gave. he mentioned the french village Chambon-sur-Lignon which saved the lives of about 3,000 Jews during the holocaust. the citizens of the predominately christian village felt that it was their duty as christians- and humans- to protect the lives of other humans, so they hid them in their homes, churches, schools, etc. when the nazis figured out what was going on, they went to the mayor and demanded the Jews. the mayor responded by saying something like "we don't know Jews here. only people" (only i bet he said it in french). Dr. Gorman pointed out that the same philosophy can and should apply to us today. i don't know undocumented immigrants, asylum seekers, iraqis, mexians, or somalis; i only know people. i don't know gays or lesbians or transsexuals; i know people. i don't know criminals, murderers, rapists, inmates, or people on death row; i know people.
it's easy (for me) to apply the "i only know people" idea to people that i already want to love, people i feel are oppressed, people that Jesus loves and wants me to love, too. but the thing is, justice isn't just if it doesn't apply to everyone, and i would argue the same is true of love. i don't know veterans; i know people. that idea is easy to apply to my brothers in law, because i already know and love them. they seem like real people to me because i eat dinner with them and talk about horses with them and sleep in their houses. but for some reason the wider population of "veterans" is hard for me to love because i'm afraid that somehow loving them will mean saying i approve of choices they made/ situations they were forced into, and i don't.
but veterans' day isn't about celebrating war. it's not about celebrating killing. it isn't about glorifying slaughter or guns or tanks. it's vetarns' day, not war day. the same way celebrating someone's birthday doesn't mean i approve of times in that person's life when they stole or lied or cheated on significant others, celebrating veterans' day doesn't mean i approve of participation in war. it's no longer an issue for me. i know i can celebrate (and love) veterans and hate war, because i do. in fact, loving veterans means i hate war more, because war has put and continues to put veterans and would-be veterans in danger. if the people serving in the armed forces right now die in the line of duty, i'll never get to meet them, which means i'll never get to love them. if my sisters' husbands (God, that's such an awkward relationship to make plural) had died while serving, i wouldn't know them. my sisters wouldn't be married. i wouldn't have a nephew. i'm not ok with that.
so i'll celebrate veterans' day because i DO love veterans, and i hope to have a chance to love more in the future. i don't love them BECAUSE they're veterans, or despite them being veterans. i love them for who they are, not what they do or what they've done before. so yeah, i'll celebrate them.
happy veteran's day.
every one of the men at the shelter where i work is a veteran. both of my grandfathers were veterans. both of my brothers-in-law are veterans. so how do i celebrate them and their lives when i disagree with the entity that made them veterans?
it has sort of come up before. this summer i was all ready to stick my "when Jesus said love your enemies, he probably meant don't kill them" sticker on my car, but decided against it when i realized that said car would spend most of the summer in front of a veteran's home- a veteran who did NOT need to let me stay there. when questions about my involvement with the mennonite church have come up, it's been impossible to describe my attraction to the faith without mentioning the fact that it's a historic peace church. there has never been any kind of argument or fight (which is good, since i, you know, CAN'T fight) but it's something that has been in the undercurrent of my interactions with my brothers in law; it hasn't really ever come up with any of our residents because i don't think they know that mennonites are pacifists, and it hasn't been an issue with my grandfathers because they both died before i knew what a pacifist was. but one of my brothers in law was a marine, and the other was in the air force, and both served active duty abroad.
the issue of veterans' day reminds me of something my awesome friend brian (http://brianjgorman.wordpress.com/)'s genius dad (http://michaeljgorman.net/) said in a lecture he gave. he mentioned the french village Chambon-sur-Lignon which saved the lives of about 3,000 Jews during the holocaust. the citizens of the predominately christian village felt that it was their duty as christians- and humans- to protect the lives of other humans, so they hid them in their homes, churches, schools, etc. when the nazis figured out what was going on, they went to the mayor and demanded the Jews. the mayor responded by saying something like "we don't know Jews here. only people" (only i bet he said it in french). Dr. Gorman pointed out that the same philosophy can and should apply to us today. i don't know undocumented immigrants, asylum seekers, iraqis, mexians, or somalis; i only know people. i don't know gays or lesbians or transsexuals; i know people. i don't know criminals, murderers, rapists, inmates, or people on death row; i know people.
it's easy (for me) to apply the "i only know people" idea to people that i already want to love, people i feel are oppressed, people that Jesus loves and wants me to love, too. but the thing is, justice isn't just if it doesn't apply to everyone, and i would argue the same is true of love. i don't know veterans; i know people. that idea is easy to apply to my brothers in law, because i already know and love them. they seem like real people to me because i eat dinner with them and talk about horses with them and sleep in their houses. but for some reason the wider population of "veterans" is hard for me to love because i'm afraid that somehow loving them will mean saying i approve of choices they made/ situations they were forced into, and i don't.
but veterans' day isn't about celebrating war. it's not about celebrating killing. it isn't about glorifying slaughter or guns or tanks. it's vetarns' day, not war day. the same way celebrating someone's birthday doesn't mean i approve of times in that person's life when they stole or lied or cheated on significant others, celebrating veterans' day doesn't mean i approve of participation in war. it's no longer an issue for me. i know i can celebrate (and love) veterans and hate war, because i do. in fact, loving veterans means i hate war more, because war has put and continues to put veterans and would-be veterans in danger. if the people serving in the armed forces right now die in the line of duty, i'll never get to meet them, which means i'll never get to love them. if my sisters' husbands (God, that's such an awkward relationship to make plural) had died while serving, i wouldn't know them. my sisters wouldn't be married. i wouldn't have a nephew. i'm not ok with that.
so i'll celebrate veterans' day because i DO love veterans, and i hope to have a chance to love more in the future. i don't love them BECAUSE they're veterans, or despite them being veterans. i love them for who they are, not what they do or what they've done before. so yeah, i'll celebrate them.
happy veteran's day.
Thursday, November 06, 2008
Dear Work
remember when i was so excited about direct service to the homeless, building relationships, therapeutic art, etc? well, I'm still excited about those things. but let me tell you about my week.
Monday was fine. Of course, the boyfriend of a former resident came in, demanding we pay him $1,500 for his car that the former client totalled, threatened to sue us, and seemed about ready to snap and kill us all, but we dealt with it. Nothing too out of the ordinary.
Tuesday I came to work at 8, as usual, and had a 2-hour all staff meeting. It took 2 hours out of my day that I would have usually spent doing my usual work, but I spend at least 2 hours a day e-mailing people (or writing blog entries...) so it wasn't really a big deal. As the meeting was getting out, a client came in and said there was an emergency in the women's bathroom- and oooohhhhh there was. The toilet had overflowed- or perhaps "erupted" is a better word- all over the bathroom floor. And this was more than water, let's get that clear from the beginning. So, we're trying to stop the water, trying to clean up the mess, and trying to get the maintenance guy to come fix it. In the time it takes the maintenance guy to get here, the mess (which was CONTINUING to come out) had flowed into the hallway. The mainenece guy said he couldn't fix it so we had to call a plumber. By the time the plumber got here, the mess had crept into the dinning room and kitchen (yeah, THAT'S what you want near your food) and the men's toilet upstairs had also exploded.
As the plumber was leaving, a new client came in. Since the last client to leave was mine (please see last post to learn how excited I was about that happening...) the new client was assigned to me. So, we meet, and are talking, and he seems nice, but sort of "off". He seems incredibly nervous, agitated, even, with incredibly rapid speech, no eye contact, and lots of jittery movements. We sit down to do the intake interview and evaluation, and come to find out he has been in prison for the last 4 years for aggravated assault, was released three months ago, and has been homeless since then. He has bi-polar disorder, depression, adult ADHD, panic disorder, and anxiety disorder. Because he has been living "in the bushes" (his words, not mine) for the last three months, he hasn't been medicated for that time. Nice. Way to go, criminal justice system. Let's lock people up in institutions that only encourage violence and criminal behavior, do nothing to rehabilitate them, then send them out into homelessness. "Don't take drugs!" we'll yell as they leave. "And don't steal, either!". I hope the Baltimore police department and criminal justice system are pleased with themselves for the treatment of prisoners and the homeless (two parts of the population who are, like undocumented immigrants, anyone of Arab decent, gays, lesbians, and people who are funny looking, apparently exempt from human rights).
ANYWAY, lack of medication for such serious illnesses explained his behavior (and made me more than a little nervous). The intake process can take up to two hours, and after about 45 minutes this guy wasn't even able to stay in his seat. He asked if he could go outside to smoke, and I said sure, hoping it would calm him down. He wasn't gone for more than a minute when he comes back in, visibly shaking, and crying. One of the other counselors got to him before I did and asked what happened. I didn't hear his response, but heard her say "Who did? Who's out there?". She goes outside, and while I'm asking the client if he's ok, yells for the only male staff person present to come outside. I can hear lots of yelling and thumping outside the door. He goes outside, and then she starts yelling for me to call 911, which I do. Of course, I have no idea what's actually going on, so I am of little to no help to the 911 responder. Eventually she comes back in and explains what's going on. Apparently a drunk and/or high and/or crazy woman (not a resident) attacked my client while he was smoking, and then tried to break into the building. By the time the police who up, she's gone. They want a report from my client, who is clearly terrified of the uniformed officers (another testament to the treatment of criminals, suspected criminals, and the homeless, if you ask me). By the time they leave, my client is so terrified and shaken up that he won't even sit down to talk to me. He is just pacing back and forth through the office, and checking the windows. Great. Perfect. This is exactly the kind of thing that my 4 years studying art and a few days of training here prepared me to deal with.
I decided to let him go and calm down and finish the interview the next day; clearly nothing would get done if I had tried to do it then. By this time, it was about 3:45. I get off work at 4:00. I wrote a narrative on my client, and then left. On my way out, I realized someone- presumably the crazy woman, or perhaps my client, had peed in the entry way to the building. Which is just as well- not like our toilets were working.
Today I came into work, sat down to read the news on BBC.com as I do every day, and at about 8:03 had to go break up a fight between two female residents. Let me tell you, I don't really worry about being hurt by the male residents. Most of them seem to have a protective feeling toward me, which doesn't bother me, considering they're all about my father's age. Of course, there is the one male who stares at me way too much, and when I asked what he wanted for Christmas opened his arms wide and said "YOOUUUUUU", and the one who, while standing behind me, tried to caress my hair and neck, but OVERALL I'm not afraid of the males. The females, on the other hand, will rip me, each other, and any other person or thing that comes between them to bits. So that was exciting.
It's almost 12 now, and so far the fight (and resulting counseling session with one of the women), and an inspection by the fire Marshall, is all the excitement there has been today. Which is good, because if one more stressful thing happens, I might actually die.
I will conclude with a letter that I think sums up my feelings.
Dear Work,
Quit being so hard. Let's be honest: a year of service was a way of dodging adulthood, not falling head-first into a stressful job with long hours and (literally) no pay. Serving Jesus and "the least of these" was meant to make me feel good, not cry. I'd appreciate it if the sexual harassment, violence and threats of violence, drug use, and cycles of poverty and homelessness could stop. Thank you for your time and attention.
xoxo,
Maggie
Monday was fine. Of course, the boyfriend of a former resident came in, demanding we pay him $1,500 for his car that the former client totalled, threatened to sue us, and seemed about ready to snap and kill us all, but we dealt with it. Nothing too out of the ordinary.
Tuesday I came to work at 8, as usual, and had a 2-hour all staff meeting. It took 2 hours out of my day that I would have usually spent doing my usual work, but I spend at least 2 hours a day e-mailing people (or writing blog entries...) so it wasn't really a big deal. As the meeting was getting out, a client came in and said there was an emergency in the women's bathroom- and oooohhhhh there was. The toilet had overflowed- or perhaps "erupted" is a better word- all over the bathroom floor. And this was more than water, let's get that clear from the beginning. So, we're trying to stop the water, trying to clean up the mess, and trying to get the maintenance guy to come fix it. In the time it takes the maintenance guy to get here, the mess (which was CONTINUING to come out) had flowed into the hallway. The mainenece guy said he couldn't fix it so we had to call a plumber. By the time the plumber got here, the mess had crept into the dinning room and kitchen (yeah, THAT'S what you want near your food) and the men's toilet upstairs had also exploded.
As the plumber was leaving, a new client came in. Since the last client to leave was mine (please see last post to learn how excited I was about that happening...) the new client was assigned to me. So, we meet, and are talking, and he seems nice, but sort of "off". He seems incredibly nervous, agitated, even, with incredibly rapid speech, no eye contact, and lots of jittery movements. We sit down to do the intake interview and evaluation, and come to find out he has been in prison for the last 4 years for aggravated assault, was released three months ago, and has been homeless since then. He has bi-polar disorder, depression, adult ADHD, panic disorder, and anxiety disorder. Because he has been living "in the bushes" (his words, not mine) for the last three months, he hasn't been medicated for that time. Nice. Way to go, criminal justice system. Let's lock people up in institutions that only encourage violence and criminal behavior, do nothing to rehabilitate them, then send them out into homelessness. "Don't take drugs!" we'll yell as they leave. "And don't steal, either!". I hope the Baltimore police department and criminal justice system are pleased with themselves for the treatment of prisoners and the homeless (two parts of the population who are, like undocumented immigrants, anyone of Arab decent, gays, lesbians, and people who are funny looking, apparently exempt from human rights).
ANYWAY, lack of medication for such serious illnesses explained his behavior (and made me more than a little nervous). The intake process can take up to two hours, and after about 45 minutes this guy wasn't even able to stay in his seat. He asked if he could go outside to smoke, and I said sure, hoping it would calm him down. He wasn't gone for more than a minute when he comes back in, visibly shaking, and crying. One of the other counselors got to him before I did and asked what happened. I didn't hear his response, but heard her say "Who did? Who's out there?". She goes outside, and while I'm asking the client if he's ok, yells for the only male staff person present to come outside. I can hear lots of yelling and thumping outside the door. He goes outside, and then she starts yelling for me to call 911, which I do. Of course, I have no idea what's actually going on, so I am of little to no help to the 911 responder. Eventually she comes back in and explains what's going on. Apparently a drunk and/or high and/or crazy woman (not a resident) attacked my client while he was smoking, and then tried to break into the building. By the time the police who up, she's gone. They want a report from my client, who is clearly terrified of the uniformed officers (another testament to the treatment of criminals, suspected criminals, and the homeless, if you ask me). By the time they leave, my client is so terrified and shaken up that he won't even sit down to talk to me. He is just pacing back and forth through the office, and checking the windows. Great. Perfect. This is exactly the kind of thing that my 4 years studying art and a few days of training here prepared me to deal with.
I decided to let him go and calm down and finish the interview the next day; clearly nothing would get done if I had tried to do it then. By this time, it was about 3:45. I get off work at 4:00. I wrote a narrative on my client, and then left. On my way out, I realized someone- presumably the crazy woman, or perhaps my client, had peed in the entry way to the building. Which is just as well- not like our toilets were working.
Today I came into work, sat down to read the news on BBC.com as I do every day, and at about 8:03 had to go break up a fight between two female residents. Let me tell you, I don't really worry about being hurt by the male residents. Most of them seem to have a protective feeling toward me, which doesn't bother me, considering they're all about my father's age. Of course, there is the one male who stares at me way too much, and when I asked what he wanted for Christmas opened his arms wide and said "YOOUUUUUU", and the one who, while standing behind me, tried to caress my hair and neck, but OVERALL I'm not afraid of the males. The females, on the other hand, will rip me, each other, and any other person or thing that comes between them to bits. So that was exciting.
It's almost 12 now, and so far the fight (and resulting counseling session with one of the women), and an inspection by the fire Marshall, is all the excitement there has been today. Which is good, because if one more stressful thing happens, I might actually die.
I will conclude with a letter that I think sums up my feelings.
Dear Work,
Quit being so hard. Let's be honest: a year of service was a way of dodging adulthood, not falling head-first into a stressful job with long hours and (literally) no pay. Serving Jesus and "the least of these" was meant to make me feel good, not cry. I'd appreciate it if the sexual harassment, violence and threats of violence, drug use, and cycles of poverty and homelessness could stop. Thank you for your time and attention.
xoxo,
Maggie
Sunday, November 02, 2008
happy halloween.
Note: My work has a Halloween party every year, and encourages staff to dress up, so keep in mind that for the duration of this story (well, the parts that happened on Friday) I was dressed as a panda. It will factor in later.
So, as I said here a few weeks ago, I got my first client at work. He was pretty nice, a recovering crack and heroin addict, currently on methadone treatment. He is also an alcoholic, though not in recovery. He is 51 years old, African American, and a veteran of the U.S. Marine Corps, where he served for 4 years. He is HIV negative, and has been diagnosed with Depressive Disorder NOS and PTSD.
He seemed nice enough, though a lot of stuff seemed to be going wrong (in addition to, you know, the whole homeless drug addict thing). He had no family or friends he could stay with, and was living in an abandoned garage before coming to Project PLASE. He had pending charges of possession and loitering (which he neglected to TELL me until he had been with us a week). Actually, there was a lot
he neglected to tell us. He didn't tell us he got take home does of methadone on the weekend, so he wasn't turning them in. (Methadone, by the way, is an artificial chemical thing that people who are attempting to get off of heroin or other opiates take. Heroin can sometimes actually change your brain and prevent it from making serotonin, which is partially why withdrawl is so awful and quitting so hard. Methadone, when taken every day, greatly lessens withdrawl symptoms, and helps the brain replace the chemicals it needs, which means the person has fewer cravings, since cravings are the brain saying "HEY I NEED THIS CHEMICAL TO FUNCTION". It is red, looks like cough syrup, and smells awful. A lot of the people at our facility who were dependent on heroin are now dependent on methadone. You have to go to a special clinic every day to get it, and it can be sold on the street, because if you take enough, you get high. The dose that people at our facility take just makes them real sleepy. There are lots of legal, moral, and medical issues and discussions about its use, which I'd be happy to give my opinion on, if anyone cares). ANYWAY, methadone is a controlled substance, so it is REALLY important the clients give it to us, because the controlled substances are signed in, counted every day, put in a lock box, etc. All prescriptions are turned in to us, in fact, and monitored closely (meds are a big part of my job). So, when we found out he had methadone in his room he hadn't been turning in, that was a big deal. Also, he had come back to our facility drunk multiple times (clients are not allowed to use ANY kind of drug or alcohol while they're with us). He was put on contract, and given a 4:00 curfew, which he almost never made. He missed every single one of his appointments with me (his counselor) except one. He lied about his pending legal charges, never brought in documentation of his DD 214, cash assistance, or substance abuse treatment history. On Thursday, he came in to the facility drunk, again (BAC of 0.2). That's a LOT of stuff to go wrong in a 2-week stay at a shelter. We called the VA, because they fund the beds of all the veterans, and told them what was going on (as we are legally obligated to do). They said they have way too many people waiting for a bed to continuing housing a person who is clearly not ready for help. They kicked him out.
It wasn't my decision to kick him out- I would have liked to try to work with him more. Even Project PLASE didn't really want to kick him out. PLASE's ideal plan would be for him to go to a 30-day in-patient substance abuse treatment program, but even if he did that, the VA wouldn't let us hold his bed for him, since so many veterans are homeless and need treatment that PLASE provides. So basically, he would just be homeless again after he got out of in-patient treatment. As it stands now, he's just homeless with no in-patient treatment.
So, it's Halloween. I was hoping to go home early (maybe around 2:30 or 3) to get ready to go to DC for the weekend. But I had to stay to have a conference and decide what to do with this guy. And around 3:30 he comes in, drunk again. We sit down and talk with him, asks what he needs, what he wants us to help him with. As usual, he says basically nothing. We tell him what the VA has decided, and he hardly reacts. When he leave the office, I'm sent behind him to go with him to his room to check for methadone and any other substances he shouldn't have; he had two bottles. I took them.
As I left his room and took the bottles to the office, I felt so, so awful. Here is this 51 year old man, a marine, being told that he can't take his own medication, that he can't handle his own life, and being kicked out of his likely last chance facility to find permanent housing. And the person who is telling him he has to leave, the person taking his medication from him, the person informing him that he is, once again, homeless, is me. A 22-year-old white girl just out of college with little to idea what she is doing, basic (at best) understanding of substance abuse and treatment, and no background in social work. Don't forget, I was also DRESSED AS A PANDA; add "irrational fear of pandas" to DD NOS and PTSD. Dammit.
This was the worst day I've had at work, one of the hardest days and things I've ever done. As I left work that day, walking (DRESSED AS A PANDA) back to my house, where I live with such great people, a house full of food and compassion and friends and love, I had the same feeling I would get every time I'd walk out of an orphanage in Kenya. That feeling of, sure, maybe I understand suffering a little better, but now I'm just leaving that situation, and all those people, behind. I'm going to my home, a better place, a place where things like homelessness and AIDS and orphans and drug addiction not only aren't seen, but don't even make SENSE. I leave changed, but with an awful, aching knowledge that I changed little, if anything, myself.
I cried the whole way home, as much for him as for the orphans in Kenya, for the refugees I now live with. What is home to an orphan? To a homeless addict? To a refugee? What is home to anyone?
So, as I said here a few weeks ago, I got my first client at work. He was pretty nice, a recovering crack and heroin addict, currently on methadone treatment. He is also an alcoholic, though not in recovery. He is 51 years old, African American, and a veteran of the U.S. Marine Corps, where he served for 4 years. He is HIV negative, and has been diagnosed with Depressive Disorder NOS and PTSD.
He seemed nice enough, though a lot of stuff seemed to be going wrong (in addition to, you know, the whole homeless drug addict thing). He had no family or friends he could stay with, and was living in an abandoned garage before coming to Project PLASE. He had pending charges of possession and loitering (which he neglected to TELL me until he had been with us a week). Actually, there was a lot
he neglected to tell us. He didn't tell us he got take home does of methadone on the weekend, so he wasn't turning them in. (Methadone, by the way, is an artificial chemical thing that people who are attempting to get off of heroin or other opiates take. Heroin can sometimes actually change your brain and prevent it from making serotonin, which is partially why withdrawl is so awful and quitting so hard. Methadone, when taken every day, greatly lessens withdrawl symptoms, and helps the brain replace the chemicals it needs, which means the person has fewer cravings, since cravings are the brain saying "HEY I NEED THIS CHEMICAL TO FUNCTION". It is red, looks like cough syrup, and smells awful. A lot of the people at our facility who were dependent on heroin are now dependent on methadone. You have to go to a special clinic every day to get it, and it can be sold on the street, because if you take enough, you get high. The dose that people at our facility take just makes them real sleepy. There are lots of legal, moral, and medical issues and discussions about its use, which I'd be happy to give my opinion on, if anyone cares). ANYWAY, methadone is a controlled substance, so it is REALLY important the clients give it to us, because the controlled substances are signed in, counted every day, put in a lock box, etc. All prescriptions are turned in to us, in fact, and monitored closely (meds are a big part of my job). So, when we found out he had methadone in his room he hadn't been turning in, that was a big deal. Also, he had come back to our facility drunk multiple times (clients are not allowed to use ANY kind of drug or alcohol while they're with us). He was put on contract, and given a 4:00 curfew, which he almost never made. He missed every single one of his appointments with me (his counselor) except one. He lied about his pending legal charges, never brought in documentation of his DD 214, cash assistance, or substance abuse treatment history. On Thursday, he came in to the facility drunk, again (BAC of 0.2). That's a LOT of stuff to go wrong in a 2-week stay at a shelter. We called the VA, because they fund the beds of all the veterans, and told them what was going on (as we are legally obligated to do). They said they have way too many people waiting for a bed to continuing housing a person who is clearly not ready for help. They kicked him out.It wasn't my decision to kick him out- I would have liked to try to work with him more. Even Project PLASE didn't really want to kick him out. PLASE's ideal plan would be for him to go to a 30-day in-patient substance abuse treatment program, but even if he did that, the VA wouldn't let us hold his bed for him, since so many veterans are homeless and need treatment that PLASE provides. So basically, he would just be homeless again after he got out of in-patient treatment. As it stands now, he's just homeless with no in-patient treatment.
So, it's Halloween. I was hoping to go home early (maybe around 2:30 or 3) to get ready to go to DC for the weekend. But I had to stay to have a conference and decide what to do with this guy. And around 3:30 he comes in, drunk again. We sit down and talk with him, asks what he needs, what he wants us to help him with. As usual, he says basically nothing. We tell him what the VA has decided, and he hardly reacts. When he leave the office, I'm sent behind him to go with him to his room to check for methadone and any other substances he shouldn't have; he had two bottles. I took them.
As I left his room and took the bottles to the office, I felt so, so awful. Here is this 51 year old man, a marine, being told that he can't take his own medication, that he can't handle his own life, and being kicked out of his likely last chance facility to find permanent housing. And the person who is telling him he has to leave, the person taking his medication from him, the person informing him that he is, once again, homeless, is me. A 22-year-old white girl just out of college with little to idea what she is doing, basic (at best) understanding of substance abuse and treatment, and no background in social work. Don't forget, I was also DRESSED AS A PANDA; add "irrational fear of pandas" to DD NOS and PTSD. Dammit.
This was the worst day I've had at work, one of the hardest days and things I've ever done. As I left work that day, walking (DRESSED AS A PANDA) back to my house, where I live with such great people, a house full of food and compassion and friends and love, I had the same feeling I would get every time I'd walk out of an orphanage in Kenya. That feeling of, sure, maybe I understand suffering a little better, but now I'm just leaving that situation, and all those people, behind. I'm going to my home, a better place, a place where things like homelessness and AIDS and orphans and drug addiction not only aren't seen, but don't even make SENSE. I leave changed, but with an awful, aching knowledge that I changed little, if anything, myself.
I cried the whole way home, as much for him as for the orphans in Kenya, for the refugees I now live with. What is home to an orphan? To a homeless addict? To a refugee? What is home to anyone?
Thursday, October 30, 2008
DO NOT WANT
I don't know what I want. That's kind of why I'm here in Baltimore doing MVS in the first place: because I don't know what I want. I don't know if I want to go to grad school. I don't know if I want to get married. I don't know if I want to live abroad. Taking a year to stall seemed like a pretty great solution leaving school, the idea being it would give me that much more time to figure out what I want.
I haven't, yet. But I am learning more and more what I don't want. I always knew I didn't want to wake up at 45 with a minivan in my driveway in the suburbs. I'm sure some people are or would be more than happy to wake up and find that as their life; I am not one of them. That sounds strangely like a white-washed picket fence hell to me, to put it bluntly.
Now I'm seeing that I also don't want to wake up at 32 in a "cute" or "artsy" but still technically-in-the-city neighborhood with a Prius parked in front of my townhouse. I KNOW a lot of people who have or would like this life, and a lot of people who are working towards it. And I see the temptation. I could get up early on Saturdays and buy vegetables and eggs from the farmer's market, I could drive my Prius to my non-profit but well-respected job, I could go to church on Sundays and gallery openings on Fridays. But I don't want that. When I imagine myself in that life, it's just too easy to see... I see myself in Gap jeans, with photos of kids in orphanages framed on my walls to prove, "See? I went there. That makes me a good person." I guess it just feels like it would be such a false life- that artificial, mostly-for-show, self-righteous string of semi-good deeds made to soothe my guilty conscience. It seems like such a half-assed attempt to feel good about my lifestyle without losing any of the comfort, ease, or glamor of an upper-middle class life. Please hold me accountable: I will never own dishes from pottery barn. I will never drive a Prius. I will shop at farmer's markets, but I will not act like that makes me a better person than anyone else, or that the purchase of one local head of lettuce off-sets every sin I've commited (food-related or not). Waking up to this life is one of my newest and strongest fears, because I can so easily see it happening.
The question becomes, then, do I want to wake up at 24 (or 32, or 45) still working a full-time, very difficult, stressful job for no pay? Maybe. Do I want to wake up at 24 (or 32, or 45) in Rwanda (or Bangladesh, or Laos) working in exchange for room and board and (if I'm lucky) vaccines? Maybe. Do I want to wake up at 32 (or 45, but Lord knows NOT 24) married with kids and NO minivan, NO picket fence, maybe a mud hut, some goats, and mosquito nets? Maybe.
I don't know what I want. But maybe I can narrow it down enough from things I don't want? Probably not. Thank God I have 9 months left to stall. Hey- I just realized- if I act fast, I could have a baby while under the MVS health plan! 9 months... do I want to wake up at 23 and a half with a baby and no home or job?
....maybe...... as long as said baby doesn't trick me into buying pottery barn dishes or a Prius.
addendum to cover my ass:
My not wanting to be 32 with a prius or 45 with a minivan does NOT mean I have any issue with individuals who are 32, or 45, or own a prius, or own a minivan. I fully intent to live to both 32 and 45, and look forward to it. I don't want a Prius (and the caricature of a life that I imagine would come along with it) because I don't think it would make me happy, not because I think it's wrong. Indeed, if people simply CAN NOT walk, or bike, or take public transportation, and actually NEED a car (which we can dispute later) I'd rather they buy a Prius than a hummer. I certainly have no beef with farmer's markets, I think they're great, we get most of our vegetable from one now, but it just seems so easily to slip into a cliche of doing all the environmentally sound things that are fashionable or make you feel cool or make your life easier, and stopping there. Again, I think it's great when anyone makes any kind of effort to limit carbon footprints, support conservation, etc, etc, but, for me, doing only the fashionable things would not work. Or rather, it would work, and it would work so well, and be so easy, that it is awfully tempting, and I don't want to fall into that. Please see this as what it is: a naive, idealistic 22-year-old trying to figure out who to be when she grows up. I know I can't know now who I'll be or what I'll want at any age, but don't tell me you weren't asking the same question when you were my age: Who am I? and perhaps more importantly, Who will I become?
I haven't, yet. But I am learning more and more what I don't want. I always knew I didn't want to wake up at 45 with a minivan in my driveway in the suburbs. I'm sure some people are or would be more than happy to wake up and find that as their life; I am not one of them. That sounds strangely like a white-washed picket fence hell to me, to put it bluntly.
Now I'm seeing that I also don't want to wake up at 32 in a "cute" or "artsy" but still technically-in-the-city neighborhood with a Prius parked in front of my townhouse. I KNOW a lot of people who have or would like this life, and a lot of people who are working towards it. And I see the temptation. I could get up early on Saturdays and buy vegetables and eggs from the farmer's market, I could drive my Prius to my non-profit but well-respected job, I could go to church on Sundays and gallery openings on Fridays. But I don't want that. When I imagine myself in that life, it's just too easy to see... I see myself in Gap jeans, with photos of kids in orphanages framed on my walls to prove, "See? I went there. That makes me a good person." I guess it just feels like it would be such a false life- that artificial, mostly-for-show, self-righteous string of semi-good deeds made to soothe my guilty conscience. It seems like such a half-assed attempt to feel good about my lifestyle without losing any of the comfort, ease, or glamor of an upper-middle class life. Please hold me accountable: I will never own dishes from pottery barn. I will never drive a Prius. I will shop at farmer's markets, but I will not act like that makes me a better person than anyone else, or that the purchase of one local head of lettuce off-sets every sin I've commited (food-related or not). Waking up to this life is one of my newest and strongest fears, because I can so easily see it happening.
The question becomes, then, do I want to wake up at 24 (or 32, or 45) still working a full-time, very difficult, stressful job for no pay? Maybe. Do I want to wake up at 24 (or 32, or 45) in Rwanda (or Bangladesh, or Laos) working in exchange for room and board and (if I'm lucky) vaccines? Maybe. Do I want to wake up at 32 (or 45, but Lord knows NOT 24) married with kids and NO minivan, NO picket fence, maybe a mud hut, some goats, and mosquito nets? Maybe.
I don't know what I want. But maybe I can narrow it down enough from things I don't want? Probably not. Thank God I have 9 months left to stall. Hey- I just realized- if I act fast, I could have a baby while under the MVS health plan! 9 months... do I want to wake up at 23 and a half with a baby and no home or job?
....maybe...... as long as said baby doesn't trick me into buying pottery barn dishes or a Prius.
addendum to cover my ass:
My not wanting to be 32 with a prius or 45 with a minivan does NOT mean I have any issue with individuals who are 32, or 45, or own a prius, or own a minivan. I fully intent to live to both 32 and 45, and look forward to it. I don't want a Prius (and the caricature of a life that I imagine would come along with it) because I don't think it would make me happy, not because I think it's wrong. Indeed, if people simply CAN NOT walk, or bike, or take public transportation, and actually NEED a car (which we can dispute later) I'd rather they buy a Prius than a hummer. I certainly have no beef with farmer's markets, I think they're great, we get most of our vegetable from one now, but it just seems so easily to slip into a cliche of doing all the environmentally sound things that are fashionable or make you feel cool or make your life easier, and stopping there. Again, I think it's great when anyone makes any kind of effort to limit carbon footprints, support conservation, etc, etc, but, for me, doing only the fashionable things would not work. Or rather, it would work, and it would work so well, and be so easy, that it is awfully tempting, and I don't want to fall into that. Please see this as what it is: a naive, idealistic 22-year-old trying to figure out who to be when she grows up. I know I can't know now who I'll be or what I'll want at any age, but don't tell me you weren't asking the same question when you were my age: Who am I? and perhaps more importantly, Who will I become?
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
As things settle more or less into a routine here, living and working has become, well... routine. Things that seemed so exciting at first have turned into simple facts. At first, walking to work through scary neighborhoods was just terrifying, but then it became exciting. Now I'm struck less with feelings of awe and interest than I am with boredom and, at times, frustration. It isn't that I ever enjoyed seeing all the used syringes, broken glass, empty liquor bottles, etc, so much as at first it was new, and new things are always exciting (to me). I was struck, more or less, by the novelty of it all, and felt so fortunate to be able to experience a new and very different place. Now I find myself feeling angry at people leaving dangerous substances and objects on the street, disgusted by the amounts of trash, and both angry and disgusted with the people (usually young men) who yell things at me as I walk by their homes, businesses, etc. I find myself having conversations with these men in my head, yelling at them for suggesting the things they do, explaining that I have a degree from a very well respected college and have chosen to live far below the poverty line this year in order to serve the homeless in this city, explaining to them that I have every right to be in this neighborhood because I LIVE here, telling them that they can kindly go to hell, etc. etc. These mental conversation rarely use polite language.
Community living has also lost some of its initial charm. Like anything else, living in an intentional community is most trying when other things aren't going well. It's one thing for us to all get along (in the Voluntary Service unit, as well as RHHP residents as a whole) while we're all feeling fulfilled and loved and happy, but it is quite another to respect and respond to everyones needs when we just want to be alone, or to watch something on TV, or to use the computer, or to make food, or to take a long shower, or anything else that might (and usually does) clash with someone else's needs and expectations. But we're learning.
I guess I've been thinking a lot about times that I remember as being better and easier than life seems now. I miss college like crazy, especially having my roommate to talk to and hang out with all the time. I miss the feelings I had while living and working in Nicaragua and Kenya. I miss the feeling that I was experiencing and a part of something truly great, something that made a difference, something that would change me and the people I was working for and with.
When I'm honest with myself, though, I know that while I was living those times in college or Nicaragua or Kenya, I went through the same honeymoon-to-routine transition that I am going through here and now. Sure, most of what I remember (or don't, haha) from college are the nights going out to Froggy's or the cow, wine nights at the Tavern, whispering with Angela in the back of art lecture in Dittmann. But there were also so many nights I cried myself to sleep, was angry at friends, was up until 2 writing papers, spent hours and hours drawing dead babies... I just chose not to remember those times, because they weren't the ones that mattered the most. I remember taking long naps in the hammock on the porch in Nicaragua, walking through the village and hearing little kids yelling "Margarita! Margarita! Maggie! Hola!" and waving enthusiastically. I remember the mangoes. Oh God, the mangoes... and from Kenya I remember making balloon animals at orphanages, swimming in the Indian Ocean, going to prayer services where 4 or more languages were being used simultaneously, but I chose to forget the rough times. I have NEVER felt so lonely as I did in Kenya, I have never been so sick as when I had dysentery and an internal parasite, and I have never been so spiritually confused and angry as I was seeing the slums. But even the bad things that I do remember I tend to chose to view positively- the slums were horrible, but taught me to seek (and find) Jesus in the midst of living hell. The hospital with the dirt floor and dead children lying on cots and people openly bleeding from various wounds was disgusting, but showed me where my heart REALLY is when it comes to "the least of these" (far away).
So now as I stay awake, listening to gunshots and sirens, worrying that I'm not smart enough, strong enough, or good enough for my job or community, I remind myself that no time in my life was perfect. Weren't there tears? Wasn't there pain? Wasn't there horrible, horrible diarrhea? The answer is, inevitably, yes (though not to ALL of those questions in every situation). I also take comfort in the fact that, weeks or months or years from now, when I'm longing for the greatness of community and inner-city living and direct service to homeless, I will remember the good times more than the bad, that I will start to see the bad times as good times, and that I will appreciate all of the pain and anger and disgusting things as opportunities that shaped me into a more well-rounded person.
Maybe if I tell myself enough that one day I'll miss, or at least have learned from, the syringes and gunshots and cat calls I will be better able to deal with them now. You have to take the dysentery along with the mangoes.
addendum: if you have or are recently recovering from dysentery, you should not, under any circumstances, attempt to eat a mango. i'm am using that as a figure of speech. if you have or are recovering from dysentery, please eat plain rice, plain bread, and bananas. also, take as much cipro as you can get your hands on. try to be discrete about asking your kenyan host father for prayers about it because, culturally, you maybe shouldn't be talking to him about shit, least of all copious amounts of it quickly leaving your body. lastly, you should be lying down and crying, not reading my blog. thanks.
Community living has also lost some of its initial charm. Like anything else, living in an intentional community is most trying when other things aren't going well. It's one thing for us to all get along (in the Voluntary Service unit, as well as RHHP residents as a whole) while we're all feeling fulfilled and loved and happy, but it is quite another to respect and respond to everyones needs when we just want to be alone, or to watch something on TV, or to use the computer, or to make food, or to take a long shower, or anything else that might (and usually does) clash with someone else's needs and expectations. But we're learning.
I guess I've been thinking a lot about times that I remember as being better and easier than life seems now. I miss college like crazy, especially having my roommate to talk to and hang out with all the time. I miss the feelings I had while living and working in Nicaragua and Kenya. I miss the feeling that I was experiencing and a part of something truly great, something that made a difference, something that would change me and the people I was working for and with.
When I'm honest with myself, though, I know that while I was living those times in college or Nicaragua or Kenya, I went through the same honeymoon-to-routine transition that I am going through here and now. Sure, most of what I remember (or don't, haha) from college are the nights going out to Froggy's or the cow, wine nights at the Tavern, whispering with Angela in the back of art lecture in Dittmann. But there were also so many nights I cried myself to sleep, was angry at friends, was up until 2 writing papers, spent hours and hours drawing dead babies... I just chose not to remember those times, because they weren't the ones that mattered the most. I remember taking long naps in the hammock on the porch in Nicaragua, walking through the village and hearing little kids yelling "Margarita! Margarita! Maggie! Hola!" and waving enthusiastically. I remember the mangoes. Oh God, the mangoes... and from Kenya I remember making balloon animals at orphanages, swimming in the Indian Ocean, going to prayer services where 4 or more languages were being used simultaneously, but I chose to forget the rough times. I have NEVER felt so lonely as I did in Kenya, I have never been so sick as when I had dysentery and an internal parasite, and I have never been so spiritually confused and angry as I was seeing the slums. But even the bad things that I do remember I tend to chose to view positively- the slums were horrible, but taught me to seek (and find) Jesus in the midst of living hell. The hospital with the dirt floor and dead children lying on cots and people openly bleeding from various wounds was disgusting, but showed me where my heart REALLY is when it comes to "the least of these" (far away).
So now as I stay awake, listening to gunshots and sirens, worrying that I'm not smart enough, strong enough, or good enough for my job or community, I remind myself that no time in my life was perfect. Weren't there tears? Wasn't there pain? Wasn't there horrible, horrible diarrhea? The answer is, inevitably, yes (though not to ALL of those questions in every situation). I also take comfort in the fact that, weeks or months or years from now, when I'm longing for the greatness of community and inner-city living and direct service to homeless, I will remember the good times more than the bad, that I will start to see the bad times as good times, and that I will appreciate all of the pain and anger and disgusting things as opportunities that shaped me into a more well-rounded person.
Maybe if I tell myself enough that one day I'll miss, or at least have learned from, the syringes and gunshots and cat calls I will be better able to deal with them now. You have to take the dysentery along with the mangoes.
addendum: if you have or are recently recovering from dysentery, you should not, under any circumstances, attempt to eat a mango. i'm am using that as a figure of speech. if you have or are recovering from dysentery, please eat plain rice, plain bread, and bananas. also, take as much cipro as you can get your hands on. try to be discrete about asking your kenyan host father for prayers about it because, culturally, you maybe shouldn't be talking to him about shit, least of all copious amounts of it quickly leaving your body. lastly, you should be lying down and crying, not reading my blog. thanks.
Thursday, October 16, 2008
this monday i got my first official client at work. well, i didn't realize he was going to be my client until yesterday, but he came on monday. i did his intake evaluation and mental health stuff and everything (still pretty sure there is a legal issue somewhere in that, but whatev) and we're off! he's officially a resident at project PLASE (http://www.projectplase.org/) and officially my client!
so imagine my excitement when he came (LATE!) to our house meeting yesterday, clearly intoxicated. well, ok, clearly to toni, one of the other counselors. i would have missed it completely. i'm terrible at telling when people are drunk (for many reasons we won't get into here) but toni is great at it. she asked him point blank if he was high, and he said no, he had only had a few beers, but hadn't been using any illicit drugs. he is in recovery for cocaine and heroin, and it is project PLASE policy that no resident use any drug OR alcohol while they are a resident, regardless of ANYTHING. so we had to talk to him, go over the rules, write him up a warning, move his curfew, and put him on contract.
it isn't my fault that he drank (especially since i didn't know he was my client at the time...) but i can't help but feel a little bad, and hope that neither of us screw up his life or the opportunity he has while he's living here. so many people get their shit together and are really able to take advantage of the multitude of opportunities they have while they're here... and so many fall again and again into relapse, refuse to take meds, move out or get kicked out, and end up on the street again. somehow my bachelor's degree in art and my 2 years of working at a zoo didn't prepare me to ensure that someone be successful here... maybe nothing could. but Lord knows i'll be doing what i can.
so imagine my excitement when he came (LATE!) to our house meeting yesterday, clearly intoxicated. well, ok, clearly to toni, one of the other counselors. i would have missed it completely. i'm terrible at telling when people are drunk (for many reasons we won't get into here) but toni is great at it. she asked him point blank if he was high, and he said no, he had only had a few beers, but hadn't been using any illicit drugs. he is in recovery for cocaine and heroin, and it is project PLASE policy that no resident use any drug OR alcohol while they are a resident, regardless of ANYTHING. so we had to talk to him, go over the rules, write him up a warning, move his curfew, and put him on contract.
it isn't my fault that he drank (especially since i didn't know he was my client at the time...) but i can't help but feel a little bad, and hope that neither of us screw up his life or the opportunity he has while he's living here. so many people get their shit together and are really able to take advantage of the multitude of opportunities they have while they're here... and so many fall again and again into relapse, refuse to take meds, move out or get kicked out, and end up on the street again. somehow my bachelor's degree in art and my 2 years of working at a zoo didn't prepare me to ensure that someone be successful here... maybe nothing could. but Lord knows i'll be doing what i can.
Friday, October 10, 2008
this wednesday the "therapeutic art group" i've started at work had its first meeting. it's "therapeutic art", not "art therapy" because i'm not a liscenced art therapist. also, i feel things like glitter paint and salt dough christmas ornaments might have a place in therapeutic art, but perhaps not in art therapy.
anyway, i was really excited, but also nervous about the group. i've taught art a lot, but never with adults, and certainly not to homeless adults with severe mental illnesses and multiple drug addictions. but it was incredible. all i did was give everyone a giant, thick piece of white paper, some magazines, scissors, and glue, and tell them to make a "who am i" collage. i was afraid that they would mutiny, that they would see how silly and juvenile that idea is and refuse to do it, and then maybe attack me with the scissors. but they didn't! they starting looking through the magazines, cutting out applicable words and pictures. everyone kind of settled on a theme for their piece, and an hour and 20 minutes later when i said we needed to start thinking about cleaning up, they were genuinely disappointed. they said it was the most relaxed they had felt in a long time, that it was so nice to get to sit and be quiet and make things, focusing only on the task at hand. we then took a few minutes to explain the significance of what we had created, why we had chosen what we had. as they talked about having their children taken from them, about being prostitutes, about being in and out of rehab for cocaine and heroin addictions, about God and about family, they started crying. Well, three of the women did, anyway. And it wasn't just talking about their own pieces, people were crying as they listened to others' stories as well. it was so, so beautiful. after we were done, we all hugged. they wouldn't stop talking about how good they felt, and how much they're looking forward to next week. i couldn't, either.
when i got home, as we were finished up dinner, one of the asylum seekers (refugees) from cameroon came in, wearing a suit and grinning. his asylum had been granted that day, so he is now legally in the us, he can get a job and a driver's licence. after 8 months of basically not existing, having no income and no way to get an income, having no way to get home and no way to get his family here, after hours of interviews and hundreds of pages of paperwork, he has his asylum. to celebrate, i made him a burrito (uh, look, it's what we had, ok?) and sat and talked with him about the process and what he's going to do now. the next step, he told me, is to apply for his family to come over. he has a wife and three children, two boys and a girl. i asked about his children, and he got very quiet. they are 12, 6, and a year old, he told me. the youngest is a boy, and he left when he was just four months old. staring at his half eaten burrito, he said "but i don't know him. four months, that's it. now he is a year. i don't even have any pictures of him." i didn't know what to say, so i didn't say anything. i thought of my nephew, who will be visiting in a few weeks, on his 4-month birthday. i thought about how that might affect him, or the refugee from iraq who has a 2 1/2 year old daughter he hasn't seen in two years. "perhaps now they will come", the asylum seeker turned asylee said. "perhaps now i will ask for some pictures to be sent."
anyway, i was really excited, but also nervous about the group. i've taught art a lot, but never with adults, and certainly not to homeless adults with severe mental illnesses and multiple drug addictions. but it was incredible. all i did was give everyone a giant, thick piece of white paper, some magazines, scissors, and glue, and tell them to make a "who am i" collage. i was afraid that they would mutiny, that they would see how silly and juvenile that idea is and refuse to do it, and then maybe attack me with the scissors. but they didn't! they starting looking through the magazines, cutting out applicable words and pictures. everyone kind of settled on a theme for their piece, and an hour and 20 minutes later when i said we needed to start thinking about cleaning up, they were genuinely disappointed. they said it was the most relaxed they had felt in a long time, that it was so nice to get to sit and be quiet and make things, focusing only on the task at hand. we then took a few minutes to explain the significance of what we had created, why we had chosen what we had. as they talked about having their children taken from them, about being prostitutes, about being in and out of rehab for cocaine and heroin addictions, about God and about family, they started crying. Well, three of the women did, anyway. And it wasn't just talking about their own pieces, people were crying as they listened to others' stories as well. it was so, so beautiful. after we were done, we all hugged. they wouldn't stop talking about how good they felt, and how much they're looking forward to next week. i couldn't, either.
when i got home, as we were finished up dinner, one of the asylum seekers (refugees) from cameroon came in, wearing a suit and grinning. his asylum had been granted that day, so he is now legally in the us, he can get a job and a driver's licence. after 8 months of basically not existing, having no income and no way to get an income, having no way to get home and no way to get his family here, after hours of interviews and hundreds of pages of paperwork, he has his asylum. to celebrate, i made him a burrito (uh, look, it's what we had, ok?) and sat and talked with him about the process and what he's going to do now. the next step, he told me, is to apply for his family to come over. he has a wife and three children, two boys and a girl. i asked about his children, and he got very quiet. they are 12, 6, and a year old, he told me. the youngest is a boy, and he left when he was just four months old. staring at his half eaten burrito, he said "but i don't know him. four months, that's it. now he is a year. i don't even have any pictures of him." i didn't know what to say, so i didn't say anything. i thought of my nephew, who will be visiting in a few weeks, on his 4-month birthday. i thought about how that might affect him, or the refugee from iraq who has a 2 1/2 year old daughter he hasn't seen in two years. "perhaps now they will come", the asylum seeker turned asylee said. "perhaps now i will ask for some pictures to be sent."
Monday, October 06, 2008
tonight i went to an hiv class for work. i thought it was just a general information kind of class, but it was actually a workshop for people who have been recently diagnosed with HIV; it was still helpful, of course, very informative about transmission, treatments, etc, but i felt a little bit out of place. i did learn a lot, though, like how maryland has the highest rates of HIV of any state in the US and how most of those were located in baltimore. they even broke it down by zip code, showing where most of the infections in baltimore were located. the zip code at the top? 21217, where i live. the rates are between 13 and 15%.
during the workshop, though, something hit me. we have all these things of hand sanitizer all throughout the house where i work, people have to wash their hands before they touch anything, all our dishes are washed with bleach, stuff like that. we have several HIV positive and some AIDS defined residents, as well as several residents with other contagious blood borne and other diseases. i always assumed that all the hand washing precautions, the special little sleeve over the thermometer for taking temperatures, the plastic gloves i have to wear when doing anything medical with the clients, all of that, was to protect me (and the other people in the house without HIV or hepatitis or whatever else) from contracting those diseases. i thought it was a little silly, you know, since of course you can't get those illnesses from sharing dishes, bathrooms, etc, but i thought it was just a universal precaution to protect the healthy from the ill. tonight at the class, i sneezed, and i sneezed into my hand instead of my sleeve, like you're supposed to. "oops" i thought. "oh well". then i realized that every other person in the room was HIV positive. then i realized that all that hand washing, disinfecting, bleaching, plastic sleeves, and rubber gloves weren't to protect me. that's to protect them FROM me, from my germs. from the things i bring in, from the things my body can fight off. how stupid and upper class and privileged of me to assume that all of those things were for my benefit, and how self-righteous of me to be proud of the fact that i don't mind sharing dishes and cups and whatever else. it's not about me, it's about them. it's been a long time since i've felt so much shame at a realization of such a misconception, because it applies to so much else in my life. i've spent 22 years assuming it was about me, for me, because of me. i think i'm finally seeing that it's not.
i hope i haven't given anyone anything, because these people are quickly blurring the lines between clients and friends.
during the workshop, though, something hit me. we have all these things of hand sanitizer all throughout the house where i work, people have to wash their hands before they touch anything, all our dishes are washed with bleach, stuff like that. we have several HIV positive and some AIDS defined residents, as well as several residents with other contagious blood borne and other diseases. i always assumed that all the hand washing precautions, the special little sleeve over the thermometer for taking temperatures, the plastic gloves i have to wear when doing anything medical with the clients, all of that, was to protect me (and the other people in the house without HIV or hepatitis or whatever else) from contracting those diseases. i thought it was a little silly, you know, since of course you can't get those illnesses from sharing dishes, bathrooms, etc, but i thought it was just a universal precaution to protect the healthy from the ill. tonight at the class, i sneezed, and i sneezed into my hand instead of my sleeve, like you're supposed to. "oops" i thought. "oh well". then i realized that every other person in the room was HIV positive. then i realized that all that hand washing, disinfecting, bleaching, plastic sleeves, and rubber gloves weren't to protect me. that's to protect them FROM me, from my germs. from the things i bring in, from the things my body can fight off. how stupid and upper class and privileged of me to assume that all of those things were for my benefit, and how self-righteous of me to be proud of the fact that i don't mind sharing dishes and cups and whatever else. it's not about me, it's about them. it's been a long time since i've felt so much shame at a realization of such a misconception, because it applies to so much else in my life. i've spent 22 years assuming it was about me, for me, because of me. i think i'm finally seeing that it's not.
i hope i haven't given anyone anything, because these people are quickly blurring the lines between clients and friends.
Thursday, October 02, 2008
so, work has remained enjoyable. last week was especially great, as i obtained several days' worth of food. first, i was given a 50 pound bag of potatoes, because the shelter had 3 and couldn't eat them all before they went bad. then, i was taken out to lunch with all the other volunteers, which was quite exciting. i got a brownie for desert, but it was actually 2 separate brownies, both huge, so i saved one. when i got back to the office, my boss gave me a doughnut. well, first she just offered it, and i said no since i was full from lunch and had just eaten a brownie. but she was quite insistent, so i finally took it and wrapped it in a napkin to save with the brownie. then one of the clients came in (one of my favorites) and asked if i liked pie. i thought he was just curious, so i told him yeah, i love pie. he pulled a little boxed cherry pie out of his bag, and put it on my desk. then he saw that i had, in addition to the pie, a doughnut and a brownie, and he scowled at me and said "eat something healthy!" and pulled a banana out of his bag and added it to my stash. then yesterday i was put in charge of organizing and re-stocking the food pantry here, and got to take home a giant bag of dried cherries for my efforts (they have the STRANGEST random canned goods here, i swear...). then this morning the same guy who gave me the pie and banana gave me some of his hot chocolate. basically, the point of this entry is that it would be foolish to think that walking a mile and a half to and from work every day would result in weight loss. this job is going to cause me to gain weight, and i'm not sure i'm going to protest. after all, we can't really afford luxuries like "food" right now, and i'm prepared to accept whatever i can.
the clients here are just incredible. i thought that it would be hard to be a caretaker (of sorts) for these people, but i find they take care of me as much as i take care of them. my favorite client and i have had multiple conversations about relationships and love and marriage, and he always calls me mags and sweetheart. reading over that, it could sound really creepy, but it isn't at all. he's in his late 50s and isn't flirting, it's very much a fraternal/paternal kind of thing. he is the oldest of 5 boys and always says how he wanted a little sister, how he would have treated her like a queen. i am more than happy to fulfil that role for him. the clients are also always telling me to be careful, and saying the worry about me walking to and from work. these fears are justified, but mostly it makes me feel loved. nothing makes me feel loved like knowing someone is thinking about me and concerned for me, you know? of course, their fears also concern me, since if anyone knows what's going on in certain neighborhoods as far as drug use and crime, it's our residents. when they say to never walk down linden, even in the day, because the gangs there are out all the time and armed, i'm going to listen. linden is the next street over from mine, by the way.
the job isn't perfect, of course. for one thing, it's really far from angela. for another, i don't get paid (i was, obviously, aware of this fact before starting, but i guess it didn't hit me until now. today i bought a diet coke on the way to work, and it was $1.50, which means i worked 4 hours and 42 minutes to earn it. 4 hours and 42 minutes for 20 ounces of diet coke. that's 4.25 ounces i earn an hour. so i won't be buying a whole lot of diet cokes. but that's ok, i'm not here for the cokes. as i resist coke-a-cola, my clients will resist cocaine, and we'll drink hot chocolate and eat pie to make it through together.
the clients here are just incredible. i thought that it would be hard to be a caretaker (of sorts) for these people, but i find they take care of me as much as i take care of them. my favorite client and i have had multiple conversations about relationships and love and marriage, and he always calls me mags and sweetheart. reading over that, it could sound really creepy, but it isn't at all. he's in his late 50s and isn't flirting, it's very much a fraternal/paternal kind of thing. he is the oldest of 5 boys and always says how he wanted a little sister, how he would have treated her like a queen. i am more than happy to fulfil that role for him. the clients are also always telling me to be careful, and saying the worry about me walking to and from work. these fears are justified, but mostly it makes me feel loved. nothing makes me feel loved like knowing someone is thinking about me and concerned for me, you know? of course, their fears also concern me, since if anyone knows what's going on in certain neighborhoods as far as drug use and crime, it's our residents. when they say to never walk down linden, even in the day, because the gangs there are out all the time and armed, i'm going to listen. linden is the next street over from mine, by the way.
the job isn't perfect, of course. for one thing, it's really far from angela. for another, i don't get paid (i was, obviously, aware of this fact before starting, but i guess it didn't hit me until now. today i bought a diet coke on the way to work, and it was $1.50, which means i worked 4 hours and 42 minutes to earn it. 4 hours and 42 minutes for 20 ounces of diet coke. that's 4.25 ounces i earn an hour. so i won't be buying a whole lot of diet cokes. but that's ok, i'm not here for the cokes. as i resist coke-a-cola, my clients will resist cocaine, and we'll drink hot chocolate and eat pie to make it through together.
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
work work work
so far, the adjustment from school life to work life has been a little tough, but not horrible. it helps that my job is amazing. here are some of my favorite perks:
-conversations with 56-year-old homeless crack addict veterans about why i don't have a boyfriend (now there is a conversation that could go on for days...)
-being called "doll baby" by elderly black women
-cross cultural experiences, like eating fried chicken necks (surprisingly good!)
-educating baltimore's homeless population on the differences between mormons, mennonites, and the amish
-having work pay for me to take classes on addiction, HIV and AIDS, and psychiatric drug distribution/monitoring and having it count towards my work hours
-seeing someone who has been living on the streets, taking and selling drugs, and working as a prostitute for 20 years move into permanent housing
-getting 50 pound bags of potatoes for free
i'm sure there will be more. i was pretty scared when they said i would be working as an advocacy counselor at a transitional homeless shelter that specializes in people with a dual-diagnosis of both a severe mental illness (or multiple illnesses) and substance abuse issues. but it has been amazing- only 2 people sent to the emergency room in the past 2 weeks! i guess in this line of work, we count that- and everything else- as a blessing.
-conversations with 56-year-old homeless crack addict veterans about why i don't have a boyfriend (now there is a conversation that could go on for days...)
-being called "doll baby" by elderly black women
-cross cultural experiences, like eating fried chicken necks (surprisingly good!)
-educating baltimore's homeless population on the differences between mormons, mennonites, and the amish
-having work pay for me to take classes on addiction, HIV and AIDS, and psychiatric drug distribution/monitoring and having it count towards my work hours
-seeing someone who has been living on the streets, taking and selling drugs, and working as a prostitute for 20 years move into permanent housing
-getting 50 pound bags of potatoes for free
i'm sure there will be more. i was pretty scared when they said i would be working as an advocacy counselor at a transitional homeless shelter that specializes in people with a dual-diagnosis of both a severe mental illness (or multiple illnesses) and substance abuse issues. but it has been amazing- only 2 people sent to the emergency room in the past 2 weeks! i guess in this line of work, we count that- and everything else- as a blessing.
Monday, September 15, 2008
charm city!?
So, I've moved to Baltimore. I had previously only been to Baltimore 4 times- twice to go to the aquarium, once to go to a red hot chili peppers concert, and to be there when my nephew was born. I grew up only an hour away, but never actually visited Baltimore because I was lead to believe that Baltimore was dirty and dangerous and that I would be shot on sight, more or less, if I ever dared enter the city limits.
I have never been more convinced that those things are true than over the past 6 days.
I moved in on Wednesday, to a large Victorian mansion in the Reservoir Hill neighborhood in northwest Baltimore (clue: northwest is the bad part). Don't get too excited about the mansion, though- it IS awesome, but it is infested with mice and cockroaches and has no ac and a lot of it is falling apart. It really is a beautiful house, though, and I share it with about 14 amazing people, including refugees from Cameroon (three of them! we are little Cameroon) and Iraq. I live on the third floor with 3 other girls who are also doing Mennonite Voluntary Service. We have room for another volunteer, AND we have a guest room, so please keep Baltimore in mind as you plan your travels! Just make sure you arrive and leave in the daylight. And have a gun. And several dogs.
No, the neighborhood isn't THAT bad. well, ok, it is. We live in the blue light district. There are these big poles with blue lights every few blocks that have cameras on them that show people at the police station live video feed of what's going on. That's how much crime happens here- they videotape it (likely while eating pop corn and ice cream sandwiches) and then, occasionally, send officers. Our house was broken into 6 times last year, so it now has bars on most of the windows and big, scary razor-looking things on the gutters to prevent people from climbing them. We have a small parking lot behind our house, and we frequently find used condoms and syringes back there. Last week, a girl was mugged as she brought her bike into the house, literally AT the door step. There are plenty of drugs and prostitutes to go around, and from the roof (which we can get to from the attic and see a LOT of Baltimore- very cool) you can watch the bigger-than-squirrel-sized rats play in the dumpster across the street. A few blocks away the neighborhood gets even rougher, and the Iraqi refugee who lives in our house says that area makes him homesick because the amount of boarded up and burned out houses and trash in the street makes it look like Iraq. I now call it the Iraqi district in my head.
I started work today, and when I told the people there where I lived they were astounded. They promptly changed my work schedule from 9-5 to 8-4 so I would never have to walk home in the dark (the walk takes about a half an hour). They also said to never, ever walk down Linden street, even in the daylight, because the gangs there are active all the time, not just at night. That's the next street over from mine.
So, it's a new experience, on pretty much every level. But I keep reminding myself how lucky I am to be here. The other night I didn't want to go to bed just yet and I wandered into the kitchen where I was able to talk to some of the refugees about their home countries and what they think about the U.S., what they like and what they miss. I haven't had a lot of opportunities to talk to people with experiences so different from mine before, and it is so exciting and enlightening. Work seems like it will be great, too. Today was my first day, so I didn't do much. I will be working as an advocacy counselor at a transitional housing facility for formerly homeless men and women. The house I will work in specializes in people with mental health issues. It is home to about 10 men (all veterans of the U.S. armed forces) and 4 women. I know this will be a huge challenge for me, but I am really looking forward to working with and getting to know the residents.
So, this year will be strange. I'm not allowed out after dark, and if I find myself already out when it gets dark, I have to find a cab willing to take me home. Apparently many cabs won't take us home at night because they refuse to go into this neighborhood after dark. I will be working to help people get their lives together, preparing for jobs and paying rent and all of that, which I feel very ill-prepared to do. I live in little Cameroon, next to the Iraqi district. Yes, this year will be strange. Strange but awesome.
I have never been more convinced that those things are true than over the past 6 days.
I moved in on Wednesday, to a large Victorian mansion in the Reservoir Hill neighborhood in northwest Baltimore (clue: northwest is the bad part). Don't get too excited about the mansion, though- it IS awesome, but it is infested with mice and cockroaches and has no ac and a lot of it is falling apart. It really is a beautiful house, though, and I share it with about 14 amazing people, including refugees from Cameroon (three of them! we are little Cameroon) and Iraq. I live on the third floor with 3 other girls who are also doing Mennonite Voluntary Service. We have room for another volunteer, AND we have a guest room, so please keep Baltimore in mind as you plan your travels! Just make sure you arrive and leave in the daylight. And have a gun. And several dogs.
No, the neighborhood isn't THAT bad. well, ok, it is. We live in the blue light district. There are these big poles with blue lights every few blocks that have cameras on them that show people at the police station live video feed of what's going on. That's how much crime happens here- they videotape it (likely while eating pop corn and ice cream sandwiches) and then, occasionally, send officers. Our house was broken into 6 times last year, so it now has bars on most of the windows and big, scary razor-looking things on the gutters to prevent people from climbing them. We have a small parking lot behind our house, and we frequently find used condoms and syringes back there. Last week, a girl was mugged as she brought her bike into the house, literally AT the door step. There are plenty of drugs and prostitutes to go around, and from the roof (which we can get to from the attic and see a LOT of Baltimore- very cool) you can watch the bigger-than-squirrel-sized rats play in the dumpster across the street. A few blocks away the neighborhood gets even rougher, and the Iraqi refugee who lives in our house says that area makes him homesick because the amount of boarded up and burned out houses and trash in the street makes it look like Iraq. I now call it the Iraqi district in my head.
I started work today, and when I told the people there where I lived they were astounded. They promptly changed my work schedule from 9-5 to 8-4 so I would never have to walk home in the dark (the walk takes about a half an hour). They also said to never, ever walk down Linden street, even in the daylight, because the gangs there are active all the time, not just at night. That's the next street over from mine.
So, it's a new experience, on pretty much every level. But I keep reminding myself how lucky I am to be here. The other night I didn't want to go to bed just yet and I wandered into the kitchen where I was able to talk to some of the refugees about their home countries and what they think about the U.S., what they like and what they miss. I haven't had a lot of opportunities to talk to people with experiences so different from mine before, and it is so exciting and enlightening. Work seems like it will be great, too. Today was my first day, so I didn't do much. I will be working as an advocacy counselor at a transitional housing facility for formerly homeless men and women. The house I will work in specializes in people with mental health issues. It is home to about 10 men (all veterans of the U.S. armed forces) and 4 women. I know this will be a huge challenge for me, but I am really looking forward to working with and getting to know the residents.
So, this year will be strange. I'm not allowed out after dark, and if I find myself already out when it gets dark, I have to find a cab willing to take me home. Apparently many cabs won't take us home at night because they refuse to go into this neighborhood after dark. I will be working to help people get their lives together, preparing for jobs and paying rent and all of that, which I feel very ill-prepared to do. I live in little Cameroon, next to the Iraqi district. Yes, this year will be strange. Strange but awesome.
Saturday, August 30, 2008
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
Growing up in my family, the love of reading was just as much a given as converting oxygen into carbon dioxide. My father is a journalist and both of my sisters are currently writers. Even though one of my sisters and I both have dyslexia, the we still caught the reading bug. We just caught it at 7 instead of 2 like my oldest sister. My parents' house is full of books, with one room's walls entirely covered by built-in bookcases. To my knowledge, no one really reads any of these books anymore (with the possible exception of my mom, who still looks up things in our 1994 edition encyclopedias because she thinks "to google" is an R-rated verb) but I think we all like knowing that they're there.
The tendency to collect and hold on to books is in my blood, and my room at my parents' house is just as full of literature as any other room, if not more so. I have one free standing bookcase that is overly-full of books, a row two and three deep along one wall, and 3 more full shelves in the walk in closet. As part of my move in September, I have started trying to cut down on my possessions. Clothes were fairly easy- anything that didn't fit or I hadn't worn in a year was gone. I only need one pair of jeans. I only need one black shirt. I can let go of the clothes. Books were not so easy. I decided to go through them this past weekend while I was home alone (with the dogs) while my parents were at the beach. I poured myself some red wine, turned on some Shostakovitch, which felt appropriate, and dug in.
Books aren't like clothes. You can't ever outgrow certain "children's" books, and even if I haven't read _The Secrert Garden_ in a year (or 8) you'll have a tough time getting me to let go of it. My sister was telling me that when she went through her books to cut them down to the essentials, she only kept ones that she would purchase again if she were to loose everything in a fire. I've thought about it a lot, and I think if I were to loose all my books in a fire, I would only replace a few of them. I would buy a new Bible (hopefully the same edition as mine so I could still know where everything is). I would buy _The Irresistible Revolution_ by Shane Claiborne, and I would buy _The Old Man and the Sea_. I would hope someone would give me the complete set of classic Winnie the Pooh books, but I wouldn't buy it myself.
Lucky for me, my books were not all lost in a fire. Rather, I vowed that i would keep only what i could fit on my one bookcase (which is well over 6 feet tall) and nothing more. I ended up breaking them into categories, and then arranging the categories into (what I felt was) a logical order. At the top is poetry and classics, heavy on the poetry. The classics I kept were largely from Hemingway, Dickens, and Steinbeck. The next shelf houses the most influential books from my classes at college, from the politics of human rights to environmental political theory to liberation theology. These flowed easily into all the other liberation theology I have purchased, which flowed nicely into more or less "applied" versions of these books, like _Rich Christians in an Age of Hunger_ and _Practical Justice_. These transition into (and this only makes sense if you're me, which I am) travel books, including a Swahili- English dictionary I stole from the Reston public library. Actually, the travel section could just as easily be the Africa section, except for one book on the politics of Central America that I read during my breaks in the back room one summer at the zoo. From there we go to the memoirs of several people who worked with international humanitarian groups and true-life accounts of child soldiers, which leads into what I called in my head "regular good books". In this section I grouped authors together, which means one shelf is almost entirely taken up by Toni Morison and Chaim Potok. These section is also home to several children's or young adult books. S. E. Hinton makes an impressive showing. From these we have "funny good books", where Dave Barry, Christopher Moore, and Nick Hornby all make impressive contributions, numbers wise. The bottom shelf is books about horses and books about art. Art could have fit in well with my books from college, but to be honest, several of them were just too tall for that shelf. A few things I managed to save from selling by giving them to my nephew (who better enjoy those Beatrix Potter books I adored so much as a child) and the rest- five giant bags full- are heading to the used book store.
I think the books I'm giving away are almost as interesting as what I'm keeping. For example, those bags contain three copies of _Emma_ and two of _Oliver Twist_, neither of which I have ever read. There are several books on Hindu mythology, and at least 5 on the Bolshevik Revolution in Russia. What can I say, I had some interesting phases in junior high.
I love every single book left on that book case. I will probably pack only the essentials to Baltimore (the "fire re-purchase" books, plus a few others but I like knowing the rest of them are there, waiting for me. In all likelihood I will only end up selling the rest at the end of this year, hopefully in preparation for some exotic several-year trip in a developing tropical country, but I'm not ready just yet. In this strange time between adolescence and adulthood, between the sheltered suburbs and inner city Baltimore, college and a "job", I don't yet know how to define myself, and I'm happy to let my bookcase do that. Poetry, politics, theology, travel, and young adulthood mixed in- I'm all there. I know I will continue to cut titles, and even entire sections (because let's be honest, the horse section can't last much longer) but for now, it's where and who I am.
The tendency to collect and hold on to books is in my blood, and my room at my parents' house is just as full of literature as any other room, if not more so. I have one free standing bookcase that is overly-full of books, a row two and three deep along one wall, and 3 more full shelves in the walk in closet. As part of my move in September, I have started trying to cut down on my possessions. Clothes were fairly easy- anything that didn't fit or I hadn't worn in a year was gone. I only need one pair of jeans. I only need one black shirt. I can let go of the clothes. Books were not so easy. I decided to go through them this past weekend while I was home alone (with the dogs) while my parents were at the beach. I poured myself some red wine, turned on some Shostakovitch, which felt appropriate, and dug in.
Books aren't like clothes. You can't ever outgrow certain "children's" books, and even if I haven't read _The Secrert Garden_ in a year (or 8) you'll have a tough time getting me to let go of it. My sister was telling me that when she went through her books to cut them down to the essentials, she only kept ones that she would purchase again if she were to loose everything in a fire. I've thought about it a lot, and I think if I were to loose all my books in a fire, I would only replace a few of them. I would buy a new Bible (hopefully the same edition as mine so I could still know where everything is). I would buy _The Irresistible Revolution_ by Shane Claiborne, and I would buy _The Old Man and the Sea_. I would hope someone would give me the complete set of classic Winnie the Pooh books, but I wouldn't buy it myself.
Lucky for me, my books were not all lost in a fire. Rather, I vowed that i would keep only what i could fit on my one bookcase (which is well over 6 feet tall) and nothing more. I ended up breaking them into categories, and then arranging the categories into (what I felt was) a logical order. At the top is poetry and classics, heavy on the poetry. The classics I kept were largely from Hemingway, Dickens, and Steinbeck. The next shelf houses the most influential books from my classes at college, from the politics of human rights to environmental political theory to liberation theology. These flowed easily into all the other liberation theology I have purchased, which flowed nicely into more or less "applied" versions of these books, like _Rich Christians in an Age of Hunger_ and _Practical Justice_. These transition into (and this only makes sense if you're me, which I am) travel books, including a Swahili- English dictionary I stole from the Reston public library. Actually, the travel section could just as easily be the Africa section, except for one book on the politics of Central America that I read during my breaks in the back room one summer at the zoo. From there we go to the memoirs of several people who worked with international humanitarian groups and true-life accounts of child soldiers, which leads into what I called in my head "regular good books". In this section I grouped authors together, which means one shelf is almost entirely taken up by Toni Morison and Chaim Potok. These section is also home to several children's or young adult books. S. E. Hinton makes an impressive showing. From these we have "funny good books", where Dave Barry, Christopher Moore, and Nick Hornby all make impressive contributions, numbers wise. The bottom shelf is books about horses and books about art. Art could have fit in well with my books from college, but to be honest, several of them were just too tall for that shelf. A few things I managed to save from selling by giving them to my nephew (who better enjoy those Beatrix Potter books I adored so much as a child) and the rest- five giant bags full- are heading to the used book store.
I think the books I'm giving away are almost as interesting as what I'm keeping. For example, those bags contain three copies of _Emma_ and two of _Oliver Twist_, neither of which I have ever read. There are several books on Hindu mythology, and at least 5 on the Bolshevik Revolution in Russia. What can I say, I had some interesting phases in junior high.
I love every single book left on that book case. I will probably pack only the essentials to Baltimore (the "fire re-purchase" books, plus a few others but I like knowing the rest of them are there, waiting for me. In all likelihood I will only end up selling the rest at the end of this year, hopefully in preparation for some exotic several-year trip in a developing tropical country, but I'm not ready just yet. In this strange time between adolescence and adulthood, between the sheltered suburbs and inner city Baltimore, college and a "job", I don't yet know how to define myself, and I'm happy to let my bookcase do that. Poetry, politics, theology, travel, and young adulthood mixed in- I'm all there. I know I will continue to cut titles, and even entire sections (because let's be honest, the horse section can't last much longer) but for now, it's where and who I am.
Thursday, August 21, 2008
let me run through my day for you so far.
7:15 am: Maggie wants to sleep until her alarm goes off at 7:30. Jack wants to yell what can only be assumed to mean "THIS BABY IS EQUIPPED WITH LUNGS AND ABLE TO YELL! HEY EVERYONE! I LEARNED HOW TO YELL! HEY! HEY! HEY EVERYONE!"
8:10 am: Maggie wants to watch saved by the bell. Jack wants to throw up on Maggie.
9:15 am: Maggie wants to take a shower. Jack wants to cry. Maggie finishes shower, picks up jack, who promptly throws up her. Again.
10:15 am: Maggie wants to watch E.R. Jack wants to scream.
11:30 am: Jack continues to scream. Maggie wants to die.
11:45 am: Jack finishes eating, is burped, and falls asleep for exactly 5 minutes, then resumes screaming. Maggie tries to decide if she should kill Jack or herself. Realizing Jack would be much, much more missed than she would be, she decides she should be the one to go. Then Maggie realizes Kristen might be mad if she leaves Jack unattended and in the same room as a dead body. Maggie takes Jack to the mall.
12:45 pm: Jack wants to sleep, but only if the stroller is moving. Maggie wants to try on a dress. Maggie puts on dress in dressing room, but the stroller is stopped, so Jack wakes up, and, of course, screams. Maggie leaves the store, embarrassed. Jack falls back asleep.
3:30 pm: at the library to use internet. Maggie wants to either surf internet, take a nap, or call her college roommate and cry and miss college. Jack wants to yell.
Jack always wins. Always. the "i'm 8 weeks old, bitch!" is a trump card that i simply can't compete with.
------------------------
this is a really exciting time for my friends and i. we all just graduated college, and are all doing really different things. some are going to grad school, some are getting jobs (or trying to). some got married or are getting married. one is in the peace corps in Kazakhstan, one is teaching in english in tanzania, one is teaching english in france. in september, i'll be moving into a community house owned by the north baltimore mennonite church. the house is currently home to about 12 people. there will be about 4 volunteers thorough the mennonite voluntary service (like me), a few boarders, and a few refugees from places like Iraq, ethiopia, and camaroon. I'll be working as a personal advocacy counselor at a homeless shelter in the city.
i'm really excited about my "job", and even more excited about my house and housemates. my friends are also excited about grad school or jobs or marriage, whatever they're doing. i'm excited. i really am. but as i prepare to enter this semi- "real world" where things like health insurance and dinner and transportation are things no longer handed to me, i can't help but miss school a little bit. i'm realizing, thanks to jackson, how incredibly selfish the last 22 years of my life have been, especially the last 4. the reason it's hard for me to stop everything i'm doing and ignore what i want to tend to the needs of someone else is because i've never had to worry about anyone but myself before. i know it's good for me to learn to be more selfless, especially since i'll be taking care of (adult) people at the shelter next year. i don't expect they will need or ask me to wipe their butts or feed them breast milk (God, I hope not) but i know that there will be times when i'll want to sleep (or eat, or go home, or call my roommate and cry) and they'll need something, and i will have to forget about what i need or want and take care of them and their needs. that's what my job will be, that's what i WANT my job to be, i WANT to take care of people. i'm good at it and i enjoy it, but holy crap, sometimes it's draining.
i keep thinking about my senior year in college. i keep remembering "beer, backrub, and bachelor" nights where my friends and i would drink beer, give each other backrubs, and watch the bachelor online (God, i could go for a good backrub). Or nights when we'd go out to a bar and come back slightly inebriated, arguing about if i should write on that guy's facebook wall again (the answer to that question is ALWAYS no, but unfortunately, angela was never once able to convince me of this). i'll miss waking up on saturdays at 11, looking over and seeing my roommate on her computer, getting up and playing on the internet, then lazily walking to the cafeteria for a brunch of scrambled eggs, pizza, and diet coke. i'm going to miss staying up til 2 and writing papers. i'm going to miss having access to amazing art facilities and incredible faculty. i'm going to miss knowing about 40% of the people i see, by face if not by name. i'm going to miss living with my best friends.
actually... i already do.
and again, i'm excited about this new chapter in my life, and i do love taking care of jack. and leaving school doesn't mean i've stopped learning. for example, i have learned that i don't want kids for at least another 43 years, and i will learn how to get around on the baltimore bus system. but i still can't help feeling while i'm trying to convince an 8 week old that he really, really will be happier if he stops spitting out his pacifier, and look ahead to a life where i am expected to be out of bed before 10 EVERY DAY and to never wear my pajamas to work, i can't help but feel a little sad about the life i've already left behind. maybe we're never ready to move on. maybe it's better to leave while i still like it, to keep college as a happy place, full of good memories. maybe it isn't all downhill from here. maybe i'll like grocery shopping.
i don't know, though. i'm going to call my roommate; she knows most stuff.
7:15 am: Maggie wants to sleep until her alarm goes off at 7:30. Jack wants to yell what can only be assumed to mean "THIS BABY IS EQUIPPED WITH LUNGS AND ABLE TO YELL! HEY EVERYONE! I LEARNED HOW TO YELL! HEY! HEY! HEY EVERYONE!"
8:10 am: Maggie wants to watch saved by the bell. Jack wants to throw up on Maggie.
9:15 am: Maggie wants to take a shower. Jack wants to cry. Maggie finishes shower, picks up jack, who promptly throws up her. Again.
10:15 am: Maggie wants to watch E.R. Jack wants to scream.
11:30 am: Jack continues to scream. Maggie wants to die.
11:45 am: Jack finishes eating, is burped, and falls asleep for exactly 5 minutes, then resumes screaming. Maggie tries to decide if she should kill Jack or herself. Realizing Jack would be much, much more missed than she would be, she decides she should be the one to go. Then Maggie realizes Kristen might be mad if she leaves Jack unattended and in the same room as a dead body. Maggie takes Jack to the mall.
12:45 pm: Jack wants to sleep, but only if the stroller is moving. Maggie wants to try on a dress. Maggie puts on dress in dressing room, but the stroller is stopped, so Jack wakes up, and, of course, screams. Maggie leaves the store, embarrassed. Jack falls back asleep.
3:30 pm: at the library to use internet. Maggie wants to either surf internet, take a nap, or call her college roommate and cry and miss college. Jack wants to yell.
Jack always wins. Always. the "i'm 8 weeks old, bitch!" is a trump card that i simply can't compete with.
------------------------
this is a really exciting time for my friends and i. we all just graduated college, and are all doing really different things. some are going to grad school, some are getting jobs (or trying to). some got married or are getting married. one is in the peace corps in Kazakhstan, one is teaching in english in tanzania, one is teaching english in france. in september, i'll be moving into a community house owned by the north baltimore mennonite church. the house is currently home to about 12 people. there will be about 4 volunteers thorough the mennonite voluntary service (like me), a few boarders, and a few refugees from places like Iraq, ethiopia, and camaroon. I'll be working as a personal advocacy counselor at a homeless shelter in the city.
i'm really excited about my "job", and even more excited about my house and housemates. my friends are also excited about grad school or jobs or marriage, whatever they're doing. i'm excited. i really am. but as i prepare to enter this semi- "real world" where things like health insurance and dinner and transportation are things no longer handed to me, i can't help but miss school a little bit. i'm realizing, thanks to jackson, how incredibly selfish the last 22 years of my life have been, especially the last 4. the reason it's hard for me to stop everything i'm doing and ignore what i want to tend to the needs of someone else is because i've never had to worry about anyone but myself before. i know it's good for me to learn to be more selfless, especially since i'll be taking care of (adult) people at the shelter next year. i don't expect they will need or ask me to wipe their butts or feed them breast milk (God, I hope not) but i know that there will be times when i'll want to sleep (or eat, or go home, or call my roommate and cry) and they'll need something, and i will have to forget about what i need or want and take care of them and their needs. that's what my job will be, that's what i WANT my job to be, i WANT to take care of people. i'm good at it and i enjoy it, but holy crap, sometimes it's draining.
i keep thinking about my senior year in college. i keep remembering "beer, backrub, and bachelor" nights where my friends and i would drink beer, give each other backrubs, and watch the bachelor online (God, i could go for a good backrub). Or nights when we'd go out to a bar and come back slightly inebriated, arguing about if i should write on that guy's facebook wall again (the answer to that question is ALWAYS no, but unfortunately, angela was never once able to convince me of this). i'll miss waking up on saturdays at 11, looking over and seeing my roommate on her computer, getting up and playing on the internet, then lazily walking to the cafeteria for a brunch of scrambled eggs, pizza, and diet coke. i'm going to miss staying up til 2 and writing papers. i'm going to miss having access to amazing art facilities and incredible faculty. i'm going to miss knowing about 40% of the people i see, by face if not by name. i'm going to miss living with my best friends.
actually... i already do.
and again, i'm excited about this new chapter in my life, and i do love taking care of jack. and leaving school doesn't mean i've stopped learning. for example, i have learned that i don't want kids for at least another 43 years, and i will learn how to get around on the baltimore bus system. but i still can't help feeling while i'm trying to convince an 8 week old that he really, really will be happier if he stops spitting out his pacifier, and look ahead to a life where i am expected to be out of bed before 10 EVERY DAY and to never wear my pajamas to work, i can't help but feel a little sad about the life i've already left behind. maybe we're never ready to move on. maybe it's better to leave while i still like it, to keep college as a happy place, full of good memories. maybe it isn't all downhill from here. maybe i'll like grocery shopping.
i don't know, though. i'm going to call my roommate; she knows most stuff.
Thursday, August 14, 2008
effective birth control
i'm working as a live-in nanny this summer for a baby who is currently 7 weeks and 1 day old. the baby doubles as my nephew, and my bosses double as my sister and brother-in-law, something that is convenient for me. i think if it were a "real" job, sending the mother texts like "your baby is broken- scream button stuck" while she's at work would be frowned upon.
anyway, i've been thinking of posting about this job for a long time, but every time i sit down to do it, the baby freaks out, or the internet (which is wireless stolen from the neighbors) breaks, or it's after 9:30, which is pretty much when i pass out.
it's just as well, though, since my days currently consist of dodging projectile spit- up, warming up and testing the temperature of breast milk that is not from my breasts, and living in constant fear that i will loose the one binky that jackson actually likes. also, i have incorporated words like "binky" into my everyday vocabulary, which is, i think, a substantial transition in and of itself. one of the strangest things is that when i take him out in public people think he's my baby, what with him being strapped to my chest in his "snuggli" and all. the thing is, i look a lot younger than i am. (case in point: i was carded for an R-rated movie. at age 22. which means they thought i was 16 or younger. WHEN I WAS 22.) as a result, i get some funny looks when out with jack. that kind of curious, pitying, judging look reserved for unwed teenage mothers and people who dress to match their pets. because of that, i've taken to wearing my ring on my left ring finger, but turned upside down, so it looks like a wedding band and not a $15 ring from amercian eagle with a horse shoe on it. i also frequently consider screaming things like "YEAH, YOU WATCH YOURSELF!" or "IT HAPPENS MORE EASILY THAN YOU THINK!!" at teenage couples i see holding hands in the mall; they're the ones who give me the best looks, this combination of fear and "that will never be me" self-righteousness. sure it won't, sweetie.
anyway, so that's how my life is going right now. i'm lucky if i brush my teeth before 11 and shower before 2. my day centers around breastfeeding (uh, again, from a bottle, not my breast milk) and diaper changes. i get really excited about things like going to the post office (CONTACT WITH THE OUTSIDE WORLD!!!) and when i can make this 12 pound person burp.
it's mind-numbingly boring most of the time, with interjections of ear-splitting screams. i get really lonely, and really, really frustrated sometimes. but the thing is, a 7 week old can smile, and when he looks at me and smiles, i almost re-consider my plan to leave him on the front porch with a sign that says "free". of course, when he's screaming and refuses to be consoled, my plan becomes leaving him on someone ELSE'S porch with a $50 taped to his chest.
all in all, though, it's more than worth it, and i'll seriously miss him when i move out in september into a house with 12 adults and no binkies or snugglies. i doubt anyone there will cuddle with me while we watch er (from 10- 11 and, if we don't fall asleep, 11- 12) and not laugh when i cry at the sweet episodes of "the office". but they probably also won't make me wipe poop off thier asses, so maybe it's an even trade.
anyway, i've been thinking of posting about this job for a long time, but every time i sit down to do it, the baby freaks out, or the internet (which is wireless stolen from the neighbors) breaks, or it's after 9:30, which is pretty much when i pass out.
it's just as well, though, since my days currently consist of dodging projectile spit- up, warming up and testing the temperature of breast milk that is not from my breasts, and living in constant fear that i will loose the one binky that jackson actually likes. also, i have incorporated words like "binky" into my everyday vocabulary, which is, i think, a substantial transition in and of itself. one of the strangest things is that when i take him out in public people think he's my baby, what with him being strapped to my chest in his "snuggli" and all. the thing is, i look a lot younger than i am. (case in point: i was carded for an R-rated movie. at age 22. which means they thought i was 16 or younger. WHEN I WAS 22.) as a result, i get some funny looks when out with jack. that kind of curious, pitying, judging look reserved for unwed teenage mothers and people who dress to match their pets. because of that, i've taken to wearing my ring on my left ring finger, but turned upside down, so it looks like a wedding band and not a $15 ring from amercian eagle with a horse shoe on it. i also frequently consider screaming things like "YEAH, YOU WATCH YOURSELF!" or "IT HAPPENS MORE EASILY THAN YOU THINK!!" at teenage couples i see holding hands in the mall; they're the ones who give me the best looks, this combination of fear and "that will never be me" self-righteousness. sure it won't, sweetie.
anyway, so that's how my life is going right now. i'm lucky if i brush my teeth before 11 and shower before 2. my day centers around breastfeeding (uh, again, from a bottle, not my breast milk) and diaper changes. i get really excited about things like going to the post office (CONTACT WITH THE OUTSIDE WORLD!!!) and when i can make this 12 pound person burp.
it's mind-numbingly boring most of the time, with interjections of ear-splitting screams. i get really lonely, and really, really frustrated sometimes. but the thing is, a 7 week old can smile, and when he looks at me and smiles, i almost re-consider my plan to leave him on the front porch with a sign that says "free". of course, when he's screaming and refuses to be consoled, my plan becomes leaving him on someone ELSE'S porch with a $50 taped to his chest.
all in all, though, it's more than worth it, and i'll seriously miss him when i move out in september into a house with 12 adults and no binkies or snugglies. i doubt anyone there will cuddle with me while we watch er (from 10- 11 and, if we don't fall asleep, 11- 12) and not laugh when i cry at the sweet episodes of "the office". but they probably also won't make me wipe poop off thier asses, so maybe it's an even trade.
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
well that stinks.
since coming home from kenya i've made much more of an effort to be socially conscious in my purchases. things like making a strong effort to buy certified sweatshop free clothing, or, more often, second hand clothing, helps me not feel like my gap jeans are laced with the blood and sweat of Chinese children. things like that. it's a fuzzy line, though, as to where "socially conscious" becomes "trendy and stupid".
one decision that continually baffles me is the choice between buying the cheapest possible toiletries (because spending $20 for foundation when the same $20 could vaccinate a child against 5 preventable childhood diseases is wrong, regardless of how glowing and flawless it makes my complexion) or buying, say, $9 organic, fair trade shampoo (because then i know it's not in a bottle made in Vietnam by exploited workers, put in said bottles in Bangladesh by underpaid children, after the chemical runoff from the grown ingredients and all the byproducts are dumped into the amazon (or whatever the hell the process is before it gets to target)). i don't know. this makes it very, very stressful for me every time i run out of shampoo or soap or toothpaste, because lives depend on my hygine choices- sometimes the lives of CUTE CHILDREN, or worse, HANDSOME MEN. i generally try to work it out so i can buy organic, fair trade things when they go on sale, but that doesn't always happen.
so, anyway, long, boring story short, i went off the organic deep end this summer, plummeting head first into a deep, deep pool of organic aloe vera and carefully cultivated lilac and rose hips (which was sticky). i bought a bottle of organic, fair trade, hemp and orange all-purpose "magic soap", made by dr. bronners. i bought it BEFORE i went to the company website and read that the formula was developed after the original dr. bronner escaped from a dutch insane asylum; i wouldn't have bought it if i knew it was crazy soap. i was seduced by it's claim to be 18 kinds of soap in one, including shampoo, body wash, dish soap, and toothpaste; clearly this was a product that could change my life, so i bought it, and it is AWESOME. it smells great, and i feel clean, and i love that it is organic and fair trade and family owned and the highest paid employee at the company makes just 5 times the amount of the lowest paid employee. at first i thought that was a lot, then i learned that in 2000, the average u.s. CEO made over 500 times the amount of the lowest paid employee in the company; suddenly, i could respect a cap at 5 times the amount.
not all such adventures into the large, hemp-scented world of organic toiletries were so glorious. i tried organic toothpaste, Tom's of Maine, specifically, which was awful. it was advertised as being "spearmint" flavored, but really was simply "bland white paste" flavored. i used it, because it was expensive, but let's just say i wasn't kissing anybody that month. um, or really any of the past few months. but i digress. i did give the organic toothpaste another try, though, and bought nature's gate brand peppermint flavor, which tastes much better, but, i later realized, is not fair trade (like Tom's) or give any of its proceeds to wilderness conservation (like Tom's). dammit.
so anyway, the biggest plunge i took was in switching to organic deodorant. risking that my hair might be slightly less supple and shiny is one thing, but risking becoming a stinky, sweaty mess is quite another. still, with some research claiming that the active ingredient in antiperspirants, aluminum, can lead to breast cancer, and the fact that all the other funky chemicals in there are bad for my armpits (and other living things), and that they're manufactured God knows where by Lord knows who being compensated in Jesus knows what way, i decided i might as well try. plus, one was made by Toms, a company i already respected, and it was rose and honeysuckle scented. now, if there is anything i'd like my armpits to smell like MORE than Secret Platinum Protection Powder Fresh, it is roses and honeysuckle. so i bought it. and you know what? i'm a stinky, sweaty mess. i smelled like roses and honeysuckle for about 56 seconds, but then the sun came up, and it all went to hell. even though the container says the formula now contains hops (uh, isn't that a main ingredient in beer?) and that should help me smell better, it did not.
this wouldn't be SUCH a big deal, except i also forgot my razor at my parents' house, and now live at my sister's house. so i haven't shaved in a few days. so i'm getting a little hairy. and am now stinky as well. so, yes, in one weekend, i went from someone who dabbled in burt's bees lip balm to a full, all out, lentil eating, Birkenstocks wearing, henna hair dying, stinky, hairy, dirty hippie. it was a short but painful fall.
to be fair, though, i don't actually have Birkenstocks, i wear chocos. and i'm not dirty, i use dr. bronner's magic soap.
one decision that continually baffles me is the choice between buying the cheapest possible toiletries (because spending $20 for foundation when the same $20 could vaccinate a child against 5 preventable childhood diseases is wrong, regardless of how glowing and flawless it makes my complexion) or buying, say, $9 organic, fair trade shampoo (because then i know it's not in a bottle made in Vietnam by exploited workers, put in said bottles in Bangladesh by underpaid children, after the chemical runoff from the grown ingredients and all the byproducts are dumped into the amazon (or whatever the hell the process is before it gets to target)). i don't know. this makes it very, very stressful for me every time i run out of shampoo or soap or toothpaste, because lives depend on my hygine choices- sometimes the lives of CUTE CHILDREN, or worse, HANDSOME MEN. i generally try to work it out so i can buy organic, fair trade things when they go on sale, but that doesn't always happen.
so, anyway, long, boring story short, i went off the organic deep end this summer, plummeting head first into a deep, deep pool of organic aloe vera and carefully cultivated lilac and rose hips (which was sticky). i bought a bottle of organic, fair trade, hemp and orange all-purpose "magic soap", made by dr. bronners. i bought it BEFORE i went to the company website and read that the formula was developed after the original dr. bronner escaped from a dutch insane asylum; i wouldn't have bought it if i knew it was crazy soap. i was seduced by it's claim to be 18 kinds of soap in one, including shampoo, body wash, dish soap, and toothpaste; clearly this was a product that could change my life, so i bought it, and it is AWESOME. it smells great, and i feel clean, and i love that it is organic and fair trade and family owned and the highest paid employee at the company makes just 5 times the amount of the lowest paid employee. at first i thought that was a lot, then i learned that in 2000, the average u.s. CEO made over 500 times the amount of the lowest paid employee in the company; suddenly, i could respect a cap at 5 times the amount.
not all such adventures into the large, hemp-scented world of organic toiletries were so glorious. i tried organic toothpaste, Tom's of Maine, specifically, which was awful. it was advertised as being "spearmint" flavored, but really was simply "bland white paste" flavored. i used it, because it was expensive, but let's just say i wasn't kissing anybody that month. um, or really any of the past few months. but i digress. i did give the organic toothpaste another try, though, and bought nature's gate brand peppermint flavor, which tastes much better, but, i later realized, is not fair trade (like Tom's) or give any of its proceeds to wilderness conservation (like Tom's). dammit.
so anyway, the biggest plunge i took was in switching to organic deodorant. risking that my hair might be slightly less supple and shiny is one thing, but risking becoming a stinky, sweaty mess is quite another. still, with some research claiming that the active ingredient in antiperspirants, aluminum, can lead to breast cancer, and the fact that all the other funky chemicals in there are bad for my armpits (and other living things), and that they're manufactured God knows where by Lord knows who being compensated in Jesus knows what way, i decided i might as well try. plus, one was made by Toms, a company i already respected, and it was rose and honeysuckle scented. now, if there is anything i'd like my armpits to smell like MORE than Secret Platinum Protection Powder Fresh, it is roses and honeysuckle. so i bought it. and you know what? i'm a stinky, sweaty mess. i smelled like roses and honeysuckle for about 56 seconds, but then the sun came up, and it all went to hell. even though the container says the formula now contains hops (uh, isn't that a main ingredient in beer?) and that should help me smell better, it did not.
this wouldn't be SUCH a big deal, except i also forgot my razor at my parents' house, and now live at my sister's house. so i haven't shaved in a few days. so i'm getting a little hairy. and am now stinky as well. so, yes, in one weekend, i went from someone who dabbled in burt's bees lip balm to a full, all out, lentil eating, Birkenstocks wearing, henna hair dying, stinky, hairy, dirty hippie. it was a short but painful fall.
to be fair, though, i don't actually have Birkenstocks, i wear chocos. and i'm not dirty, i use dr. bronner's magic soap.
Saturday, August 09, 2008
on riding
When I was in junior high, my mom said that the only time I ever sat up straight was when I was on a horse. I started riding when I was 8 and rode every week, sometimes several times a week, until I graduated high school. I leased my first horse, Dusty, when I was in seventh grade. Later in high school I began to show horses, usually a temperamental chestnut quarter horse named Kirov. He had a violent temper and, as a result, had his own field separated from the other horses and a stall in an isolated part of the barn. He had no fear of anything or anyone, would jump anything you put in front of him, and throw any rider he didn't like. We were a great team.
I know that riding is a privilege usually reserved for the upper crust of society. I know that, stereotypically, it the sport of stuffy upper class British men or, worse, spoiled American tweens. Although my parents did make me work off many of my lessons by cleaning stalls, cleaning tack, and doing other various chores at the barn, it was really more on principal than out of necessity. Over the years my parents must have spent thousands of dollars on riding lessons, boots, brushes, tack, show fees, leasing horses, and, of course, every saddle club book ever published. When I think about the money that was spent on my hobby, I can't help but cringe.
At the same time, it is hard for me to classify riding as a complete waste of time and money. In high school, I dealt with self-esteem issues (like everyone), depression (like most people), and an eating disorder (like all too many people). Riding was one of the only constants in my life, the one thing that I did all the time, and one of the only things I did well. I slouched while sitting, standing, and walking because I was scared and shy and ashamed of who I was, but I sat up straight on a horse because it was a place I could feel confident, comfortable, and strangely enough, safe. I had to respect myself while riding because a horse won't respect a person who doesn't respect herself. I learned to be confident and commanding while maintaining composure. It is difficult to get a 2,000 pound animal to do anything, let alone take make an circle with an exactly 30 meter diameter, jump a 4 foot fence, or bend his neck at a perfect arch; riding takes strength, determination, and self-assurance. Riding taught me patience and to put my needs and desires second to the needs and desires of someone else. Many mornings before 7:00 I ignored my own hunger to feed 35 horses breakfast, many evenings I sat pulling briars out of my leased pony, Yankee's, tail until my fingers bled. I learned that the sport is more than the glamour of showing and jumping; like anything, you have to shovel a lot of shit to get anywhere worthwhile.
I stopped riding when I graduated high school, but not for long. I rode again the summer after freshman year, although my beloved Kirov had died of intestinal cancer. I instead leased a massive, barely broken draft cross named Ranger. He was... difficult. After that I began riding at school as well, taking lessons from a trainer north of the twin cities. It felt good and right to be in the saddle again, to forget everything else going on in the world and my life and focus exclusively on the task at hand. That's another thing about riding: it forces you to focus, to really, really concentrate, because the last thing you want to be thinking about while in mid-air over a jump on a horse is English homework or some guy. Of course, accidents happen even while focused, and on February 20, 2007 I was thrown from a horse. He was a giant, gorgeous bay gelding named Dante, perhaps 4 or 5 years old. He was a good horse, but feeling anxious, and as we cleared the last jump of a course he started bucking. I sat two of them (thank you very much) but was thrown over his head by the third, landing flat on my back in front of him. I broke my back in three places and ruptured a disc. It hurt.
But even this I count as a blessing, because at no other time has my strength been tested like that. After some time bedridden, and some time in a ridiculous brace, and some time in physical therapy, I'm (more or less) recovered, and evermore thankful for my life and mobility. I was inches from being paralyzed, and now often find myself checking buildings for wheelchair access, wondering what my life would be like had a landed just a little differently.
I've only ridden twice since the accident, due to financial reasons. It is harder and harder for me to justify spending so much money to feed and care for and ride animals when humans around the world starve to death. I can't bring myself to fork over $60 for an hour of riding when that amount of money give 60 people clean water for a year (http://www.bloodwatermission.com/). But I still don't regret the time and money spent on my behalf to ride horses, because it has made me who I am and taught me things I don't know that I would have learned any other way.
Today I packed up all of my riding gear- my boots, chaps, helmet, pants, show shirt, show coat, brushes, boxes, crops, etc- to give to lift me up, a therapeutic riding program for kids with developmental and/or emotional disabilities (http://www.liftmeup.org/). I will miss riding, but can no longer justify it to myself (especially since my income next year will be (ta-da!) $50 a month). But I sincerely hope that my boots and spurs and tack will be used by some other kid who needs them, not just to have fun, but to learn about hard work and self respect and caring for living things. I also hope they make the kids who are physically able clean the stalls and throw hay once in a while; it's good for them.
montana night
"I hear these put three times the amount of tar in your lungs," she said, with more than a little pride in her ability to take her own life in her hands.
"I just think they taste good. Like herbs," I said, still secretly wondering if I was doing it wrong.
We sat for a few silent minutes, admiring the Montana stars at midnight and the mountains we couldn't see.
Taking a drink, I said, "I feel like we're twelve, sneaking cigarettes and beer in the backyard," knowing full well that at twelve I was far more interested in early American poetry and the U.S. equestrian team than alcohol, that I hadn't had any alcohol until I was a month away from 20, and this was only my second time smoking cloves, having smoked hookah twice before that. I never smoke or drank at twelve, and she knew it.
She stayed silent. We had been friends since we were six, but I was suddenly unsure of myself, wondering what, exactly, she had done at twelve without me.
"I just think they taste good. Like herbs," I said, still secretly wondering if I was doing it wrong.
We sat for a few silent minutes, admiring the Montana stars at midnight and the mountains we couldn't see.
Taking a drink, I said, "I feel like we're twelve, sneaking cigarettes and beer in the backyard," knowing full well that at twelve I was far more interested in early American poetry and the U.S. equestrian team than alcohol, that I hadn't had any alcohol until I was a month away from 20, and this was only my second time smoking cloves, having smoked hookah twice before that. I never smoke or drank at twelve, and she knew it.
She stayed silent. We had been friends since we were six, but I was suddenly unsure of myself, wondering what, exactly, she had done at twelve without me.
artist statement
It's been twelve months since I left Kenya and there in the fourth week I saw the first and only dead body I've ever seen-- a child. On a cot in the Kakamega public hospital (not the one for white people) I think he starved to death. So skinny and dead. Oh god oh god he's dead that one on the cot he's dead muffled Kiswahili skinny dead.The day we took the babies to the clinic I picked the chubby baby because I needed one to be healthy and I needed to hear she was going to be OK and carry her out and feel better but they said no, this one, she's not fat because she's eating, she's fat because she's being eaten. Parasites, they said, that whole big belly of yours full of worms, all 20 pounds of you were parasitic worms and you weren't OK and I'm sorry I'm so sorry I chose you to take to the clinic and I'm sorry I never knew your name and I'm sorry that you're not OK.
I'm sorry, Bonnie and Maxwell and Ben and Luvembe and Wyclif and Steven and Eric and Issac. I'm sorry. I'm sorry I left you. I'm sorry all I ever gave you was a soccer ball. I'm sorry I didn't give you the candy bar the day on the street when you were high. I was so scared. You're twelve and I'm scared. I'm sorry if you're dead now and I'm sorry I don't know if you're dead. And baby Joesph with the yellow hat, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry I put you down I had to leave we had to leave I had to leave Mathare. And baby Nakariah from Huruma-- Huruma, it means Mercy-- they call you and orphan but someone had to put you in the dumpster where they found you. Who, baby, who? And Kathleen stared at the chest of that boy she held and told me over and over she had to watch his chest to see if he's still breathing is he breathing he's not breathing and that one, that one is dead now, I'm quite sure of it.
30,000 every 24 hours. 20.83 a minute. I made 25 a minute so I could stay ahead of you but 2,460,000 more starved to death in the two months it took me to make this one day.
more images at www.maggiepageonline.com
I'm sorry, Bonnie and Maxwell and Ben and Luvembe and Wyclif and Steven and Eric and Issac. I'm sorry. I'm sorry I left you. I'm sorry all I ever gave you was a soccer ball. I'm sorry I didn't give you the candy bar the day on the street when you were high. I was so scared. You're twelve and I'm scared. I'm sorry if you're dead now and I'm sorry I don't know if you're dead. And baby Joesph with the yellow hat, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry I put you down I had to leave we had to leave I had to leave Mathare. And baby Nakariah from Huruma-- Huruma, it means Mercy-- they call you and orphan but someone had to put you in the dumpster where they found you. Who, baby, who? And Kathleen stared at the chest of that boy she held and told me over and over she had to watch his chest to see if he's still breathing is he breathing he's not breathing and that one, that one is dead now, I'm quite sure of it.
30,000 every 24 hours. 20.83 a minute. I made 25 a minute so I could stay ahead of you but 2,460,000 more starved to death in the two months it took me to make this one day.
more images at www.maggiepageonline.com
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