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.
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