Wait, WHAT?

I guess I am moving to Belgrade, Serbia. Wait, what? Who moves to Serbia?!

I guess I do. I'll be teaching kindergarten and working in a center for education and counseling for victims of trauma starting in August. Here is my new job description:

The last 15 years have been difficult and traumatic for all citizens of the former Yugoslavia, due to the long and devastating war. These events also struck Serbia. In the beginning there was a great fear of possible mobilization, causing many people to hide and live in fear. As well, the number of refugees that came upset people and brought fear.

Sanctions for Serbia lasted for years and caused serious economic crises. It was very difficult for people to provide even the basics for their families. The future seemed unpredictable, causing feelings of uncertainty and insecurity. In addition, the spread of the war to Kosovo ended with the bombardment of Serbia, a traumatic experience for all Serbians.

Apart from traumas caused by wars, many of the traumas Serbians are dealing with occurred within the family. Family violence multiplied during these years. General disappointment and insecurity as well as economic and political uncertainty caused anxiety that was felt within families, where the victims are usually children and women. Men are usually victims of crime, and the reason they engage in illegal activities is in order to provide for their families.

Noah’s Ark Kindergarten: SALTer will help the kindergarten teachers in their everyday work with children. This placement represents an opportunity to build bridges and to strengthen one of the few church-sponsored kindergartens in Serbia.

Psihoorijentir: SALTer will assist the Center in organize files and the library, developing materials, consulting and fundraising. SALTer's observations and analysis will be sought as to help the Center develop better.


Assignment Description:

Kindergarten - The kindergarten Noah’s Ark is situated in the central part of the city of Belgrade. It was founded in 1996. The founder is the Baptist Church. At the moment there are 35 children attending the kindergarten, including 2 children that are handicapped. There are 4 teachers working in the kindergarten and usually one trainee. The kindergarten is financed by the donations and contributions of the parents.

Psihoorijentir - is a center for education and psychological assistance. There is a team in the Center trained for education on trauma. Educational trainings are held in the center, designated for teachers, kindergarten teachers, pedagogues and psychologists employed in education and social institutions (orphanages, social work, reformatory schools…). Beside education the Center offers support to adults and children that experienced traumatic events. This is conducted through individual therapy and support groups. The Center also educates volunteers for work in support groups.

Duties:
Throughout the assignment and especially at the beginning the service worker will focus on learning Serbian to fulfill the duties listed below.

Noah’s Ark Kindergarten: SALTer will work 3 days a week (Monday to Wednesday) from 9 A.M. to 5 P.M. He/she will assist one teacher: will observe what the teacher is doing and will follow her instructions. Working in the kindergarten involves playing with children, helping them with dressing, helping them in drawing and all sort of creative work, setting the tables for lunch and removing the dishes after lunch together with kids, setting the mats for their afternoon naps, helping them dress and most of all be able to answer to their questions, instruct them in their work and observing their behavior and interactions with other children.
It also involves some extracurricular activities. Together with the teacher, depending on activity, he/she is to help in doing it, for instance: an excursion outside the kindergarten area, sport activities, going to theater for children, kitchen activities and so on.
SALTer is expected to be present at all activities that are organized for children and parents by Saturdays and after the working hours. She/he is also expected to be present at the meetings where we plan and analyze our work.

Psihoorijentir: The working hours of the SALTer would be 2 days a week (Thursday and Friday) from 9 A.M. to 4 P.M. Our project is a specific one because of the seminars and consequently we are forced to work on Saturdays. Therefore the volunteer will be expected to participate in working on Saturdays, with the option that whenever the volunteer works on Saturdays he/she could take a day off during the week.
Filling and organizing the library – SALTer will help in organizing files and library which will help the Center in learning what other resources are needed and how to obtain these (via web, buying books and so forth).
Development of materials – Since the SALTer will have access to materials from the US or Canada which are designed for people in helping professions, we expect that volunteer would help us in the choice of material as well as in advising us how to use them.
Observation – A SALTer would attend seminars as an observer. He/she will be the observer of our teamwork as well. If SALTer shows interest and would like to be part of the team that leads the seminar we would be open for this (the Center’s staff). However, we understand that this might take some time after volunteer would feel comfortable with the language.
Analysis – A SALTer would help us to analyze the work that has been done and also to evaluate it. The participating of the SALTer in analysis will be the result of the observations that he/she has observed.
Fundraising – To research the web and learn about grant possibilities from organizations and individuals that would interested in supporting the work of the Center.

As far as working on Saturdays SALTer will in conversation with the director of Psihoorijentir and the Kindergarten make decision when to be working at the Kindergarten and when at the Center. Just to make a note that not all Saturday will be work days.

SALT participants are expected to demonstrate an active interest and commitment to learning Serbian language and to engage within the local community where they serve.

Location Description
Belgrade, the capital of Serbia and Montenegro as well as the biggest city with a population of more than 2 million, is strategically situated at the confluence of the Danube and Sava rivers. Because of this it is a city that has been destroyed many times due to wars, and is now a mixture from charming old architecture to plain somewhat neglected concrete apartment buildings from the communist era. Because of the recent conflict in the region hundreds of thousands of displaced people have migrated to Belgrade, straining public services and causing a very tight housing situation.

Despite the recent history Belgrade remains a safe place to live, generally without fear for personal safety. It is a bustling city with constant activity 24 hours a day. There are many theatres, cinemas, cultural events, good restaurants with reasonable prices, and coffee shops which spill out onto sidewalks and side streets for 6 months of the year. Public transportation is readily available, with buses and tramlines providing good connections to all parts of the city.

The climate in Belgrade is temperately continental. Winter temperatures are usually around -5 to -10 degrees Celsius, but it can get as cold as -17. It is normal to have some snow in the months of December to February. Summers are fairly hot, with temperatures climbing to 40 degrees Celsius for brief periods of time. Fall and spring are fairly long and pleasant seasons.

I still feel like they are lying to me about the winter, but I think that is because I am mixing up Serbia and Siberia (they're different, I looked on a map).

Happy ash Wednesday!

Oh my.

There are times this job feels daunting and thankless. When I sit in my office and look out the window and can LITERALLY watch drug dealers hand out testers (free samples of drugs) to people- mostly kids- to get them addicted, I feel discouraged. I think that is probably a normal reaction.

But then there are certain days and certain clients that are filled with gratitude. I have one client who said that he was feeling bored and restless and that he wanted something to do. He said he grew up on a farm and loves animals and misses his dog. I went online and printed out three applications to volunteer at different animal shelters in the city, and I filled out some of the basic information for him. Today when he came in to the office, I showed them to him and told him he could fill out the rest, or I could fill the rest out with him. He looked up at me, astonished. His eyes filled with tears. He thanked me repeatedly and told me I had really helped him out, that he would work on them right away, that God would bless me for this.

This is not something I deserve that kind of gratitude for. The entire process of printing and starting the applications probably took less than 15 minutes. What touches me is not that I was finally shown some gratitude for my hard work, but that I was shown gratitude for almost nothing. These people have been beaten down- figuratively and literally- so many times by so many people for so long that they begin to see themselves with the world's eyes. They start to believe that they are worthless, that they don't deserve love or attention or affection, that their disabilities or addictions or illnesses define them. This client is so used to being ignored that the simplest act of kindness became monumental to him. His tears are not a testament to my love or service, because I didn't do anything particularly noteworthy. They're a testament to past cruelty and pain. As such, his thank-yous were more painful than pleasing to me.




In other news, I have to decide by Thursday if I want to take a job working at an orphanage for kids with developmental disabilities in Managua, Nicaragua, or a job teaching kindergarten three days a week and working at a center for people with PTSD two days a week in Belgrade, Serbia. Both jobs are a year long, starting in August, and are through the Mennonite church. I have no idea which would be better. Serbia sounds awesome, and would be new, but I love Nicaragua and have close friends there. Nicaragua has mangoes and monkeys. Serbia has... well, I don't really know, I've never been there. I'm thinking of flipping a coin. After all, I agonized over my decisions of what to do with this year and ended up in a job that has nothing to do with my interests or skills, and I'm pretty happy. So deciding between two jobs that ARE relevant to my interests and skills should be refreshing. And terrifying. I'll let you know on Thursday where you can start sending my mail.

I used to think it was a bit silly when people would say things like, "It's the little things that make life worth living!" Part of me still thinks it is. The little things, after all, are just what fills in the space between the BIG things. I like the Big Things. I've always liked Big Things, and tend to end up with a lot of big events in my life. This is partially because of luck (both good and bad) and partially because I have a flair for the dramatic and tend to thrive on change, movement, even crisis.

This is changing somewhat for me. I am not doing the most glamorous job in the world. I spend a lot of my days entering urinalysis results into a computer, on hold with the department of social services, or trying to fit a new shipment of food from the food bank into a pantry. Most days, there isn't too much to tell about what I've done. There are rarely measurable accomplishments, and sometimes there aren't even clear goals or benchmarks. I would prefer a job where every day something really breathtaking or beautiful or heartbreaking or scary or hilarious happens, but really, how many jobs are like that? The fact of the matter is, Big Things are big because they don't happen every day.

I tend to see God and learn about myself and form really lasting friendships during or immediately after Big Things, but I guess that doesn't mean God isn't in the small things, or that nothing in my character is revealed in how I deal with the mundane, or that genuine relationships can't be born out of boredom. Lately I've been really enjoying watching the flowers on my windowsill grow. I've been trying to be fully present and really looking with open eyes as I walk home from my new job (although, honestly, this is AT LEAST as much to prevent mugging as it is to see the neighborhood, which is TERRIFYING). I have found joy in attempting to perfect a cupcake recipe and seeing how happy it makes my housemates that I've started baking so many cupcakes. I've been trying to really taste the coffee I make. Not just drink it, but taste it, feel the warm cup, watch the sugar dissolve...


Life is short, but sweet for certain.

sigh

I started a new job today, kind of. I'm now working with external clients at another facility. They're funded by Project PLASE but are housed in an outside agency. Six of these will be my clients, in addition to the two at the co-ed facility. Today all I'm doing is reading files and looking at charts and trying to get to know the people, where they've been, and what they need. It's so hard to try to understand people from these little blurbs that counselors write.

"Client reports witnessing incest between father and daughter."

"Client was diagnosed with HIV in 1985. He called his sister to share diagnosis and she told him to never call her again. His uncle said 'you turned out to be a real bum.' Client has no other family to speak of."

"Client began using heroin at age 17, cocaine at age 20."

"Client dropped out of school after grade 5."

"Client dropped out of school in 7th grade, aged 17 years."

"Diagnosis: Adjustment disorder NOS"

"Diagnosis: Adjustment disorder with depression"

"Diagnosis: anxiety disorder"

"Client is more irritable than usual."

"Client has passive suicidal thoughts but no plan."

Counselor is in over her head.

Rebirth

Reason Number 468 Why I Need to Live South of the Mason-Dixon Line:

One of my biggest complaints about Minnesota is the lack of flowering trees. Living there for 4 years was rough for me. Not only is winter really, really, really long, but spring isn't even that pretty. It's mostly muddy from all the melting snow, and then just when it's getting warm and you're wearing skirts and flip flops it will snow AGAIN, and there are no dogwoods or cherry blossoms, and then the next thing you know, it's summer. I'm not OK with that.

Walking home from work today I was in a pretty bad mood. As I crossed over 83, I looked up, and a tree by the side of the sidewalk had little buds on it. I think they were flower buds, they were about the size of a large olive and were fuzzy. I pulled one off a low-hanging branch and rubbed it between my fingers the rest of the walk home.

It made me feel like I was holding a tangible representation of a promise. "Spring is coming!" it said. "And there will be flowers!" No winter lasts forever, and even things that may seem dead for months can produce fruit.

It isn't that I'm unhappy here, per se, and it's not that I'm counting down the days until I leave (although I am counting down the days until I go to Minnesota to visit friends- 27 left!). I just feel stuck in winter, in a ground too frozen to til and temperatures that kill seedlings. I long for a warm spring breeze and FLOWERS and the scent of honeysuckle. Today I was reminded that they're on their way, and that party of the beauty is in the patient waiting.



"Another world is not only possible, she is on her way. On a quiet day, I can hear her breathing."

Goodbye?

I'm not very good at letting people go. I still talk to my best friend from when I was 6 about once a week on the phone. This weekend I'm going to visit my two best friends from high school. I talk to my roommate from college on the phone about twice a week and email with her a few times a day. I am in regular contact with college friends who are now living in Kazakhstan, Tanzania, and France. I email my host sister from Nicaragua and my host father from Kenya. Thanks to Facebook, email, gchat, Skype, and cell phones, it seems that no one is ever REALLY gone. Even if I don't communicate directly with friends from high school and college, I, in most cases, can still see when they get a new job, move, start dating or break up with someone, and any number of other things through Facebook and blogs. I, and most of my generation, have come to expect and demand ties that withstand any distance or length of time, however informal. I'm not even at the forefront of this communication and connectivity craze. I am notoriously hard to reach by cell phone, partially because I leave it places and partially because I refuse to answer it during work, meals, or meetings (and it appalls me that this surprises people). I only use one online networking site, despite invitations to join MySpace, twitter, and any other number of resources that would invite even more people into my life.

I'm not trying to say that all of this is good or bad; like (almost) everything else, there are benefits and disadvantages to hyper connectivity. This week I'm learning about some of the disadvantages.

My favorite client from work is gone. He arrived at the shelter the same day I did. I even did part of his intake interview (which with LITERALLY no training was an interesting experience). He is friendly, funny, and very intelligent. He was a source of encouragement and joy for staff and clients alike. We had frequent conversations about friendship, relationships, family, religion, and politics. A recovering cocaine addict, he had relapsed and used drugs once while a resident here. He immediately told staff, was placed on contract, and even publicly apologized to the other residents (which he did of his own accord with no prompting from us).

Last Sunday he didn't come back to the shelter. His curfew had just been moved from 4:00 PM to 6:00 PM. At 10:00 PM he phoned to say that he was waiting for a bus, and would be back soon. That was the last we heard from him. The veteran's administration, who funds his placement here, has said that they will no longer pay for him to stay here. If he returns to the shelter, we are supposed to escort him to retrieve his belongings, and then ask him to leave. As the days pass, however, it is seeming less and less likely that he's coming back. We have called central booking and every hospital in Baltimore, and he's not there.

I feel betrayed. He specifically told me when I pointed out that he and I had the same first day that "we came together and we'll leave together." He said he wanted to have permanent housing before I leave in August. It was quite a realistic goal, he was doing well in recovery and worked very, very hard. And now? He's just gone. I'm not offended if he has started using drugs again, because I know that addiction is bigger than I am and that nothing I can do can make it go away, but I'm hurt that he would not at least let us know what's going on.

More than anything, I'm worried about him. Did he die? Is he staying with family? Is he living in a park? There is no Facebook status update or blog entry or group email I can check. I can't call him because he has no phone. I can't send him a letter because he's homeless. Ours was a relationship built entirely on face-to-face interaction; now one of those faces is gone. While going home from work I found myself looking closely at the people I pass on the street. Maybe he's out there. Maybe I'll run into him at the inner harbor or Lexington Market. But most likely, I'll never see or hear from him again, and that is a concept that is incredibly difficult to wrap my head around.

who needs insurance?

Today is my first day in a week wearing real pants instead of my awesome organic sweatshop free yoga pants from Maggie's Organics (www.maggiesorganics.com). I have been sick for about 10 days now, and didn't leave the house for the last 6 of them except to go to the thrift store to buy decorations for an Edgar Allan Poe party.

The worst part of this illness, which I at first referred to as tuberculosis until a friend mistakenly thought I actually HAD tuberculosis, is that I am so unused to being sick. I don't get sick, and if I do, I'm over it in a day, two tops. I often joke that it's OK that I don't have health insurance this year because I have the strongest immune system in the world, with the only caveat being that I am incredibly accident prone.

In the past 8 years I have fracture my skull, broken my ankle, ruptured an ear drum, and sustained three compression fractures, several bone chips, and a ruptured disc in my back. I have had to seek emergency medical care for a severe allergic reaction to an antibiotic and been hospitalized overnight for a drug overdose. I contracted a parasitic worm and, as a result, dysentery while in Kenya. I haven't been to the ER in over a year, which is the longest I have gone without going to the ER in 8 years. Some would say I'm due for an accident of some kind, and I am inclined to think they might be right.

I deal with pain pretty well, and know the drill for riding in ambulances (which, by the way, is really, really fun, except for the intense pain and fear of death part that often comes along with the ride). But sickness I do not do well with. I get incredibly frustrated- irate, even- when I am unable to breathe. I refuse to give in to the sickness, which means I often refuse to rest or stay home from work. I try to show the virus (or bacteria or evil mutant space germs) who is boss, but in this case, I just ended up feeling worse and worse. I TRIED to go to work, and they sent me home because I looked and sounded like death herself. So, I stayed home for a whole week. I cleaned everything in our house, drank my weight in tea, drank a WHOLE BEAR full of honey, and made cupcakes (which will probably infect everyone else in the house, oops!). I stayed in my pajamas and sweatshirt and caught up on my reading. But it was still awful. For all the days I lie in bed and wish I could stay home from work, I now know that the flip side, staying home all day every day, is worse. So today, despite a lingering cough and brief periods of light headedness, I am at work. And I'm not in yoga pants. And it feels good.

Please pass the honey.

life

I'm good at taking care of things, I like to think. I have been told on multiple occasions that I'm quite good with kids, and to be honest, I think I am. Few things give me more pleasure than talking or drawing with a child between the ages of, say, 18 months and 4 years. Holding a baby is a unique kind of bliss. I have recently decided that after 4 years of art school and a year of social work with the homeless that my TRUE desire is to be a preschool teacher.

I'm good with animals, too. I spent two summers working as a zookeeper, and was the ONLY keeper for whom the zebras would approach the wagon rides. You want to see a zebra up close or have a chance at petting one? You better hope you were on one of my rides. In fact, I was the chosen keeper for training the camels and tagging baby deer, too. I spent 3 years in college volunteering at the local humane society, and at no point in my childhood had fewer than 3 pets, including, at most points, 2 dogs. If you're small and/or furry, there is a good chance that I will love you and take great pleasure in caring for you.

This is all to point out how sad it is in comparison that I kill every plant I have the audacity to look directly at. It isn't that I don't like plants, because I do. I especially love flowers, which my mom will tell you is partially why I kill everything. I insist on trying to grow flowering plants on windowsills with far too little sunlight, which is why they don't flower and, in most cases, don't live. But I don't care. Why would I grow ivy when I could grow daisies? The answer, of course, is that I CAN'T grow daisies, but whatever. I have, on occasion, set my sights lower, like the time I got a cactus. I was assured by multiple people that I could not kill a cactus, which was the basis of my purchasing it. It seemed to do well enough in the week or so I had it in Virginia, and then I put it in a cup holder to drive it 20 hours to school in Minnesota. I mean, it was in a flower pot, so what's the big deal? Well, at some point during the trip, perhaps while veering wildly to avoid a median, or while flailing in excitement at seeing a taco bell, or while trying to unearth a case of CDs from underneath some bedding, the cactus tipped over and fell out of the pot. Since there was still dirt all around the roots, I figured it was fine and stuck it back in the pot and vacuumed up the rest of the dirt. Apparently this is NOT how you care for unearthed cactus, because it died. Only- and here is the really sad part- I didn't know it was dead. I thought it seemed to be getting smaller, but convinced myself that I was just imagining things. That is, until the day when a book fell on it and it literally collapsed in on itself, revealing an interior that was completely hollow except for a bit of opaque ooze that, to be honest, reeked.

Anyway, I love to care for things, but do not have a green thumb. My mom gave me 3 pots of flowers that have managed to stay green on my windowsill, but have ceased to produce flowers (the little jerks). A few weeks ago, however, I was given three little flower pots in a bag of donated art supplies from the preschool where I used to work. The art supplies are for my art group at work, but the flower pots, I couldn't help but feel, were meant for me. After all, what would 14 adults do with 3 tiny flower pots? They came with little cakes of dirt you soak in water to make expand and 2 packets of seeds. I was hesitant to get my heart involved in something I know will end in sorrow, but then decided to go for it. I took my paintbrushes out of my tall plastic cup and soaked the little cakes of dirt. When they had achieved regular dirt status, I filled up the little pots and planted a few seeds in each one. For several days, I dribbled just a little water into each one, remembering from my grow-your-own daisy kit (which I later killed) that new seeds need pretty damp soil (but not TOO damp, but how do you KNOW?) and I waited. And I waited. And then today, out of nowhere, were 13 tiny sprouts! There are 3 in one pot, 2 in another, and 8 in the other other. It is just so beautiful. Yesterday I had three pots of dirt, and today I have 13 teeny tiny living growing beautiful plants. Sprouts. Whatever they are. They are supposed to grow into mums, though I am smarter than to think I will ever guide them to that stage. I know that they will last a few weeks and then slowly, much to my dismay, begin to wilt and die.

One day I really, really want to have a beautiful garden. I want to have a yard with so many daisies that you could pick a bouquet every day and never know the difference. I want to have pink roses that grow along a blue fence and tomato plants that produce so many tomatoes that I and the hundreds of orphans I hope to raise will be able to eat them at every meal. Actually, while I'm dreaming, I'm going to go ahead and say that I want tomato plants that produce all year long. Why stop in August? Give me tomatoes in February! I want to grow fresh herbs to season all the food I make, and plants inside in pots- two for every piece of electronic equipment in the room. I know this will (most likely) never happen, but today I don't care. Today I have 13 plants that I planted and watered and love, and I love them all the more for their vulnerability and inevitable demise.



"nothing we are to perceive in this world equals the power of your intense fragility" e e cummings

Community

I've been meaning to write on intentional community for a while.

Living in community is one of the main reasons I chose to do MVS instead of the SALT program (which is a 1 year service abroad organization through the Mennonite Central Committee). In MVS, volunteers live together in a common space and share food, money, chores, sometimes a car, etc etc etc. I chose to come to Baltimore because our house is such a unique community. Instead of just having MVS volunteers, we have 13 housemates from 6 different countries. We have 5 refugees, 4 Mennonite volunteers, 1 Brethren volunteer, and 4 community members/ renters. We share chores, space, basic foods like flour, sugar, and spices, and of course our lives. When I have a hard day, there is always someone in the kitchen who will listen to me talk about it. When I am excited about something, someone will probably be in the living room to be excited with me. Community is a beautiful thing- when it works. But like everything else in the world, it doesn't work all the time.

Before there was sin in the world, God saw that it wasn't good for man to be alone. A lot of people take this verse to mean that God wants everyone to get married, but those people are idiots. Not everyone is supposed to get married, and marriage is not the most sacred institution or relationship on earth; one's relationship with God is. I think far fewer people need to get married and instead devote their lives to service and, yes, community. But I digress. I LOVE that after God makes (evolves) the world, the animals, and humans, He looks and sees that it isn't good enough to have just one person. It isn't sin that separates man from God or the animals, it's simply how we're made: we need each other. There is nothing wrong with feeling lonely. Wanting to be with others isn't weakness, it's instinct. Community is huge throughout the whole Bible. The Hebrews are selected and saved AS A PEOPLE. Jesus intentionally forms a tight-knit core group of disciples. Disciples are always sent out in pairs to go serve and heal and preach. The early church lived together and shared everything in common. Paul's epistles are written to entire church bodies and communities of believers. We were never meant to go it alone, and the gospel looks and feels different when it is lived out in it's proper context- that is, in community.

That being said, let me also say that community is really, really, really hard. Forming a "community" of a Bible study or even a group of friends while I was in college was an entirely different process than LIVING in community. Senior year I lived with 9 other girls, but I CHOSE those girls. We knew each other and made the conscious decision to live together. I did NOT chose the people I live with now, and to be honest, if I had a choice, there are some that I would not chose to live with. But I wasn't given a choice, I was given a family and asked to function with respect and even love within it.

I would say about 60- 65% of the time, my community is a good thing. When I'm cleaning the kitchen and someone helps me, even though it isn't their kitchen cleaning day, or when someone makes me tea because I'm sick, or teaches me to cook a food from their country, or shares a story about life before Baltimore, it feels like we really are one unit, here to serve each other.

But then there is that pesky 35- 40% of the time. The other times. The times when for the 6th time in a row I didn't use the last of the toilet paper, but the toilet paper is gone with no new roll in sight (yeah, the toilet paper fairy who magically replaces the roll when you use the last of it and leave the cardboard there? That's me). The times when no one communicated about using the car and now it's gone and no one knows where it is. The times when I just want to sit by myself and watch the Office online in my room and a housemate WILL NOT LEAVE or STOP TALKING about something irrelevant. Those times are hard. Really hard.

More than that, though, I've been shocked by how painfully lonely living in community can be. After all, loneliness isn't about being around people or not being around people; it's about feeling loved and understood and known and wanted. Living with 13 people doesn't mean that 13 people love and understand and know and want me, it just means they're obligated to give me phone messages and save me some of their dinner.

This community has not been what I expected or, to be honest, what I wanted. But more and more, at work and at home, I'm learning to die to myself and thrive on service. My life is not my own, and nothing drives that point home more than working 8 hours at a homeless shelter and coming home and having to cook dinner for all the volunteers and clean the bathroom, putting my needs and desires aside. I don't have the luxury of taking a nap or going to Starbucks or having cereal for dinner. I have certain obligations I need to do and certain relationships that I need to nurture, like it or not. Sometimes I do it well, and sometimes I don't. Sometimes other people in the house take care or me and nurture me well, and sometimes they don't. But for now, it works more often that it doesn't, and it's enriching, even when it's hard. And maybe that's all we can ask for.

Wow.

There is no such thing as a normal day at this job. I mean, there are certain things that I do every day or every week, but there is never a day that is exactly the same as any other.

A few days ago, a female client of ours got $700 on a a food stamp card (which works like a debit card, but only on food). The average food stamp award for a single person is only $160 a month, but she hadn't received them for quite a while even though she was entitled to them, so they gave them to her all at once. She has been clean for less than a month, and she told staff that she was concerned she would use the card to buy drugs. My first thought was, holy crap, I knew this was a bad area but they sell COCAINE in the GROCERY STORE?, but that wasn't it. She was afraid she would sell the card, then use that money to buy drugs, which is apparently pretty common (reason #64 why I would be a pretty bad drug addict).

She and the rest of the staff agreed that the best thing to do would be to spend the money on the card so it would be less of a temptation. I had my car here today, so I was given the task of taking her to the store to spend the money. She was really excited about being able to get lots of "extras" to share with the house. The shelter is fully stocked with food, of course, but only basic things, and they're the same all the time. So, off to Save-a-Lot we go, her food card in my hand, to feed the homeless.

The main thing she wanted was crab legs. We got $45 worth (about 5 pounds). We got tons of chips and cookies and soda and pies. I threw in a few bags of grapes, apples, and bananas. We got about 6 boxes of "fancy" cereal (off-brand Lucky Charms, Cookie Crisp, etc). We also got a 10 pound bucket (yes, BUCKET) of chitterlings. Google it. Then guess which one of us picked THAT one out.

It was nice being out with her, walking around the store, talking about our families and what foods we like and don't like. She was surprised but pleased that I don't have kids. She has 4 and is currently pregnant. But at the same time, it just seemed so odd. I wondered what the cashier thought as I pulled the card out of my pocket and gave it to her to use to pay. Of course, the reason they switched to cards was to make it less obvious that people were purchasing food with government assistance, but they're still pretty recognizable (and the fact that they have "INDEPENDENCE CARD" written in big red letters doesn't really help). We ended up spending about $300, mostly on junk. I was torn between being excited for our residents, some of whom have spent years living on the streets, who now get to have special things like cookies and cake and soda and crab. Another part of me was thinking about the dead babies I saw in Kenya who had starved to death. From anorexia to involuntary starvation to compulsive eating to $700 in back payments on food stamps that need to not be spent on drugs.... we, as a collective humanity, have a pretty f-ed up relationship with food.

When I got back to the shelter, I went through the mail, which I do every day. I also alphabetize it every day, but the overnight staff always mess it up. WHY? I don't know. You should ask them. Anyway, today we had a letter from prison. I LOVE when we have letters from prison, because I get to be the one to answer them. Granted, it's with a form letter explaining that we do take ex-offenders and has numbers and addresses for them to use to get housing through us, but I still like answering them. I like reading them and feeling like I get to help a person I might never see.

This letter wasn't seeking housing, though. It was from a 58 year old man seeking employment. He didn't say how long he had been in prison for, but he did say he has his masters degree in social work. He also said he has schizophrenia and bi-polar disorder. He ended the letter with, "I need to get back to work. I am sober now for the long run. Starting over is hard at my age. Please help me." When I took the letter to my manager to ask what I should write back, she pointed out that his release date had already passed and that he hadn't left an address other than the one of the prison, so we have no way to contact him.

Educationally (which is probably not a word), that man is more qualified for this job than I am. Actually, he is probably more qualified based on life experiences, too, and would probably not have to use urbandictionary.com to translate the drug slang the clients use. But here I am, working, smelling the crab legs that a client is so excited to serve her friends. And where he is? I can't know.

Housing.

I just got off the phone with a woman who was trying to reach our intake counselor, who doesn't actually work at this building. I told her she should call the main office and gave her the extension of the person she wanted to reach. She asked me if I could give her the name and number of someone who could help her if she couldn't get through to the first person, so I asked her what the call was regarding so I could know to whom I should refer her.

She told me that she had spoken with our intake person a year or so ago about getting housing and has been on the wait list. She is currently facing foreclosure on her house and just lost her job. She won't get her last paycheck from work until her eviction date, which is, of course, too late to stop the eviction from happening.

She was desperate; I could hear the sadness in her voice. I told her that there really wasn't anyone else for her to speak with, that the intake person is in charge of the wait list and all new clients. She asked what to do if the intake counselor didn't answer, and I told her to leave a detailed message, stating what was going on and emphasizing the fact that it is urgent, and that the counselor would get back to her.

She was persistent; I don't blame her. "And if she doesn't? What do I do? Who can I call or go to if she doesn't get back to me in time?"
I was silent. What do you say to that? This woman was asking me, point blank, how to avoid becoming homeless. What was I supposed to say? "Oh, I'm just a volunteer, I have a degree in art, I haven't worked here that long, I'm not a social worker...." I mean, what do you say to that?

I told her I didn't know who to call. I told her that the counselor WOULD call her back, that we understand that sometimes quick and decisive action is needed. I told her we would do everything we could to help her, and we will.

And if we don't? If we fail? If she falls between the cracks, and is literally left out in the cold?

I don't know. I don't know. I don't know.

choices

"Geography is no cure for what's the matter with you." -Hemingway, Islands in the Stream

I used to think that I needed to get as far away as possible from everything I knew in order to be happy. Throughout college, most of what I talked about was moving to a developing country when I graduated so I could start my "real" life. A lot of people, myself included, were quite surprised when I turned down an offer to teach English and art in Nicaragua in order to come to Baltimore. At the time, I couldn't really give a good reason for the decision, except that going to Nicaragua just didn't feel right. To be honest, if I could do it over, I might make a different choice, but I am also thankful for the opportunity to experience Baltimore for year.

A lot of what I'm learning here is what I don't want to do. I know now that I don't want to spend my life in the inner city. I know I don't want to be a social worker. I know I don't want to work with adults with addictions. It isn't that I don't love my job, because I do, I'm just not that good at it. I'm not cut out for this type of work- I am too trusting, too sensitive, and too naive. I know that, with time, these things would change, but I'm not sure I want them to. I LIKE that I'm a trusting and sensitive person. Naivete is perhaps a less desirable trait, but I have trouble seeing myself losing these things without becoming cynical and detached.

Some of the people I work with- most of them, actually- are fabulous at what they do. If, for example, a client's urinalysis comes back positive for cocaine, and I have a conference with the client and ask if they used cocaine, and they tell me no, and start crying, and insist it must be a mistake, I believe them. If one of my coworkers were to have a conference with the same client, they would be able to see through every lie they told and somehow get them to admit the type, amount, and location of every drug in their possession. I don't know how. They're just that good.

Earlier this week two of our female residents moved out. They weren't kicked out, and they didn't find permanent housing, they just left. Both of them had stayed in bed after 7am (which is against the rules) and so our manager had a conference with each of them individually. In the course of these meetings, she somehow got them to both admit that they had used drugs in the past week. This, by itself, is not grounds for being removed from the shelter, but it is a serious offence. The manager was in the process of discussing how to better address the clients' substance abuse issues, and both clients became frustrated and resistant. The manager said something like "do you really want to be here? are you ready for help? are you ready to quit using drugs?" and the women both said no. They threw what few possessions they have into garbage bags and walked out.

I was fighting back tears. I wanted to chase them into the street screaming for them to come back, pleading for them to give US another chance, asking them to fully consider the consequences of their decisions. I didn't, though. I sat at my computer and entered urinalysis results into the computer. Over lunch, the other counselors and I were discussing what happened. The consensus among the experienced counselors was very much that what had happened was a shame, but that the women needed to make their own mistakes, that they were not ready for help, and that we had done everything we could do. I hate that. I hate feeling so helpless, I hate working so hard and having everything I've done be so fragile, and I hate letting go of people I've come to love. But I also knew that the other counselors were right; I can't fix anyone, I can't force anyone into recovery, and try as I might, I can't love someone back to sanity or sobriety or happiness (though I plan on continuing to try).

Somewhat in line with the thought that moving far away would mean leaving all my problems behind, I used to think that only the hardest work was worth doing. I thought that, somehow, my life would only have value if I was working in the poorest country with the most vulnerable population doing the most draining work. I am now more than comfortable with the concept that some work is really just too hard for me. I would have been ashamed in college to ever say that a job- particularly a job serving people who are so often ignored and oppressed- was too tough for me, but guess what: this one is. Of course I will finish my year here, and I know I will be stronger for having done so, but I can say with confidence that this is not my calling. Nothing has ever confirmed in my love for and desire to work with children as much as working with adults and nothing has made me want to live in a rural area of an unindustrialized country more than living in the inner city. Thus, I can't really say that coming here was a mistake or wasted time, because I AM having confirmations of my vocation... just not for THIS vocation.

By the way, today, two days after she left, one of the residents who left on Monday came back, welcomed with open arms by staff and clients alike. And that, my friends, is an example of what will help me last here until August.

this is all i have to say about christmas.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.