DO NOT WANT

I don't know what I want. That's kind of why I'm here in Baltimore doing MVS in the first place: because I don't know what I want. I don't know if I want to go to grad school. I don't know if I want to get married. I don't know if I want to live abroad. Taking a year to stall seemed like a pretty great solution leaving school, the idea being it would give me that much more time to figure out what I want.

I haven't, yet. But I am learning more and more what I don't want. I always knew I didn't want to wake up at 45 with a minivan in my driveway in the suburbs. I'm sure some people are or would be more than happy to wake up and find that as their life; I am not one of them. That sounds strangely like a white-washed picket fence hell to me, to put it bluntly.

Now I'm seeing that I also don't want to wake up at 32 in a "cute" or "artsy" but still technically-in-the-city neighborhood with a Prius parked in front of my townhouse. I KNOW a lot of people who have or would like this life, and a lot of people who are working towards it. And I see the temptation. I could get up early on Saturdays and buy vegetables and eggs from the farmer's market, I could drive my Prius to my non-profit but well-respected job, I could go to church on Sundays and gallery openings on Fridays. But I don't want that. When I imagine myself in that life, it's just too easy to see... I see myself in Gap jeans, with photos of kids in orphanages framed on my walls to prove, "See? I went there. That makes me a good person." I guess it just feels like it would be such a false life- that artificial, mostly-for-show, self-righteous string of semi-good deeds made to soothe my guilty conscience. It seems like such a half-assed attempt to feel good about my lifestyle without losing any of the comfort, ease, or glamor of an upper-middle class life. Please hold me accountable: I will never own dishes from pottery barn. I will never drive a Prius. I will shop at farmer's markets, but I will not act like that makes me a better person than anyone else, or that the purchase of one local head of lettuce off-sets every sin I've commited (food-related or not). Waking up to this life is one of my newest and strongest fears, because I can so easily see it happening.

The question becomes, then, do I want to wake up at 24 (or 32, or 45) still working a full-time, very difficult, stressful job for no pay? Maybe. Do I want to wake up at 24 (or 32, or 45) in Rwanda (or Bangladesh, or Laos) working in exchange for room and board and (if I'm lucky) vaccines? Maybe. Do I want to wake up at 32 (or 45, but Lord knows NOT 24) married with kids and NO minivan, NO picket fence, maybe a mud hut, some goats, and mosquito nets? Maybe.

I don't know what I want. But maybe I can narrow it down enough from things I don't want? Probably not. Thank God I have 9 months left to stall. Hey- I just realized- if I act fast, I could have a baby while under the MVS health plan! 9 months... do I want to wake up at 23 and a half with a baby and no home or job?

....maybe...... as long as said baby doesn't trick me into buying pottery barn dishes or a Prius.

addendum to cover my ass:
My not wanting to be 32 with a prius or 45 with a minivan does NOT mean I have any issue with individuals who are 32, or 45, or own a prius, or own a minivan. I fully intent to live to both 32 and 45, and look forward to it. I don't want a Prius (and the caricature of a life that I imagine would come along with it) because I don't think it would make me happy, not because I think it's wrong. Indeed, if people simply CAN NOT walk, or bike, or take public transportation, and actually NEED a car (which we can dispute later) I'd rather they buy a Prius than a hummer. I certainly have no beef with farmer's markets, I think they're great, we get most of our vegetable from one now, but it just seems so easily to slip into a cliche of doing all the environmentally sound things that are fashionable or make you feel cool or make your life easier, and stopping there. Again, I think it's great when anyone makes any kind of effort to limit carbon footprints, support conservation, etc, etc, but, for me, doing only the fashionable things would not work. Or rather, it would work, and it would work so well, and be so easy, that it is awfully tempting, and I don't want to fall into that. Please see this as what it is: a naive, idealistic 22-year-old trying to figure out who to be when she grows up. I know I can't know now who I'll be or what I'll want at any age, but don't tell me you weren't asking the same question when you were my age: Who am I? and perhaps more importantly, Who will I become?

As things settle more or less into a routine here, living and working has become, well... routine. Things that seemed so exciting at first have turned into simple facts. At first, walking to work through scary neighborhoods was just terrifying, but then it became exciting. Now I'm struck less with feelings of awe and interest than I am with boredom and, at times, frustration. It isn't that I ever enjoyed seeing all the used syringes, broken glass, empty liquor bottles, etc, so much as at first it was new, and new things are always exciting (to me). I was struck, more or less, by the novelty of it all, and felt so fortunate to be able to experience a new and very different place. Now I find myself feeling angry at people leaving dangerous substances and objects on the street, disgusted by the amounts of trash, and both angry and disgusted with the people (usually young men) who yell things at me as I walk by their homes, businesses, etc. I find myself having conversations with these men in my head, yelling at them for suggesting the things they do, explaining that I have a degree from a very well respected college and have chosen to live far below the poverty line this year in order to serve the homeless in this city, explaining to them that I have every right to be in this neighborhood because I LIVE here, telling them that they can kindly go to hell, etc. etc. These mental conversation rarely use polite language.

Community living has also lost some of its initial charm. Like anything else, living in an intentional community is most trying when other things aren't going well. It's one thing for us to all get along (in the Voluntary Service unit, as well as RHHP residents as a whole) while we're all feeling fulfilled and loved and happy, but it is quite another to respect and respond to everyones needs when we just want to be alone, or to watch something on TV, or to use the computer, or to make food, or to take a long shower, or anything else that might (and usually does) clash with someone else's needs and expectations. But we're learning.

I guess I've been thinking a lot about times that I remember as being better and easier than life seems now. I miss college like crazy, especially having my roommate to talk to and hang out with all the time. I miss the feelings I had while living and working in Nicaragua and Kenya. I miss the feeling that I was experiencing and a part of something truly great, something that made a difference, something that would change me and the people I was working for and with.

When I'm honest with myself, though, I know that while I was living those times in college or Nicaragua or Kenya, I went through the same honeymoon-to-routine transition that I am going through here and now. Sure, most of what I remember (or don't, haha) from college are the nights going out to Froggy's or the cow, wine nights at the Tavern, whispering with Angela in the back of art lecture in Dittmann. But there were also so many nights I cried myself to sleep, was angry at friends, was up until 2 writing papers, spent hours and hours drawing dead babies... I just chose not to remember those times, because they weren't the ones that mattered the most. I remember taking long naps in the hammock on the porch in Nicaragua, walking through the village and hearing little kids yelling "Margarita! Margarita! Maggie! Hola!" and waving enthusiastically. I remember the mangoes. Oh God, the mangoes... and from Kenya I remember making balloon animals at orphanages, swimming in the Indian Ocean, going to prayer services where 4 or more languages were being used simultaneously, but I chose to forget the rough times. I have NEVER felt so lonely as I did in Kenya, I have never been so sick as when I had dysentery and an internal parasite, and I have never been so spiritually confused and angry as I was seeing the slums. But even the bad things that I do remember I tend to chose to view positively- the slums were horrible, but taught me to seek (and find) Jesus in the midst of living hell. The hospital with the dirt floor and dead children lying on cots and people openly bleeding from various wounds was disgusting, but showed me where my heart REALLY is when it comes to "the least of these" (far away).

So now as I stay awake, listening to gunshots and sirens, worrying that I'm not smart enough, strong enough, or good enough for my job or community, I remind myself that no time in my life was perfect. Weren't there tears? Wasn't there pain? Wasn't there horrible, horrible diarrhea? The answer is, inevitably, yes (though not to ALL of those questions in every situation). I also take comfort in the fact that, weeks or months or years from now, when I'm longing for the greatness of community and inner-city living and direct service to homeless, I will remember the good times more than the bad, that I will start to see the bad times as good times, and that I will appreciate all of the pain and anger and disgusting things as opportunities that shaped me into a more well-rounded person.

Maybe if I tell myself enough that one day I'll miss, or at least have learned from, the syringes and gunshots and cat calls I will be better able to deal with them now. You have to take the dysentery along with the mangoes.

addendum: if you have or are recently recovering from dysentery, you should not, under any circumstances, attempt to eat a mango. i'm am using that as a figure of speech. if you have or are recovering from dysentery, please eat plain rice, plain bread, and bananas. also, take as much cipro as you can get your hands on. try to be discrete about asking your kenyan host father for prayers about it because, culturally, you maybe shouldn't be talking to him about shit, least of all copious amounts of it quickly leaving your body. lastly, you should be lying down and crying, not reading my blog. thanks.

this monday i got my first official client at work. well, i didn't realize he was going to be my client until yesterday, but he came on monday. i did his intake evaluation and mental health stuff and everything (still pretty sure there is a legal issue somewhere in that, but whatev) and we're off! he's officially a resident at project PLASE (http://www.projectplase.org/) and officially my client!

so imagine my excitement when he came (LATE!) to our house meeting yesterday, clearly intoxicated. well, ok, clearly to toni, one of the other counselors. i would have missed it completely. i'm terrible at telling when people are drunk (for many reasons we won't get into here) but toni is great at it. she asked him point blank if he was high, and he said no, he had only had a few beers, but hadn't been using any illicit drugs. he is in recovery for cocaine and heroin, and it is project PLASE policy that no resident use any drug OR alcohol while they are a resident, regardless of ANYTHING. so we had to talk to him, go over the rules, write him up a warning, move his curfew, and put him on contract.

it isn't my fault that he drank (especially since i didn't know he was my client at the time...) but i can't help but feel a little bad, and hope that neither of us screw up his life or the opportunity he has while he's living here. so many people get their shit together and are really able to take advantage of the multitude of opportunities they have while they're here... and so many fall again and again into relapse, refuse to take meds, move out or get kicked out, and end up on the street again. somehow my bachelor's degree in art and my 2 years of working at a zoo didn't prepare me to ensure that someone be successful here... maybe nothing could. but Lord knows i'll be doing what i can.

this wednesday the "therapeutic art group" i've started at work had its first meeting. it's "therapeutic art", not "art therapy" because i'm not a liscenced art therapist. also, i feel things like glitter paint and salt dough christmas ornaments might have a place in therapeutic art, but perhaps not in art therapy.

anyway, i was really excited, but also nervous about the group. i've taught art a lot, but never with adults, and certainly not to homeless adults with severe mental illnesses and multiple drug addictions. but it was incredible. all i did was give everyone a giant, thick piece of white paper, some magazines, scissors, and glue, and tell them to make a "who am i" collage. i was afraid that they would mutiny, that they would see how silly and juvenile that idea is and refuse to do it, and then maybe attack me with the scissors. but they didn't! they starting looking through the magazines, cutting out applicable words and pictures. everyone kind of settled on a theme for their piece, and an hour and 20 minutes later when i said we needed to start thinking about cleaning up, they were genuinely disappointed. they said it was the most relaxed they had felt in a long time, that it was so nice to get to sit and be quiet and make things, focusing only on the task at hand. we then took a few minutes to explain the significance of what we had created, why we had chosen what we had. as they talked about having their children taken from them, about being prostitutes, about being in and out of rehab for cocaine and heroin addictions, about God and about family, they started crying. Well, three of the women did, anyway. And it wasn't just talking about their own pieces, people were crying as they listened to others' stories as well. it was so, so beautiful. after we were done, we all hugged. they wouldn't stop talking about how good they felt, and how much they're looking forward to next week. i couldn't, either.

when i got home, as we were finished up dinner, one of the asylum seekers (refugees) from cameroon came in, wearing a suit and grinning. his asylum had been granted that day, so he is now legally in the us, he can get a job and a driver's licence. after 8 months of basically not existing, having no income and no way to get an income, having no way to get home and no way to get his family here, after hours of interviews and hundreds of pages of paperwork, he has his asylum. to celebrate, i made him a burrito (uh, look, it's what we had, ok?) and sat and talked with him about the process and what he's going to do now. the next step, he told me, is to apply for his family to come over. he has a wife and three children, two boys and a girl. i asked about his children, and he got very quiet. they are 12, 6, and a year old, he told me. the youngest is a boy, and he left when he was just four months old. staring at his half eaten burrito, he said "but i don't know him. four months, that's it. now he is a year. i don't even have any pictures of him." i didn't know what to say, so i didn't say anything. i thought of my nephew, who will be visiting in a few weeks, on his 4-month birthday. i thought about how that might affect him, or the refugee from iraq who has a 2 1/2 year old daughter he hasn't seen in two years. "perhaps now they will come", the asylum seeker turned asylee said. "perhaps now i will ask for some pictures to be sent."

tonight i went to an hiv class for work. i thought it was just a general information kind of class, but it was actually a workshop for people who have been recently diagnosed with HIV; it was still helpful, of course, very informative about transmission, treatments, etc, but i felt a little bit out of place. i did learn a lot, though, like how maryland has the highest rates of HIV of any state in the US and how most of those were located in baltimore. they even broke it down by zip code, showing where most of the infections in baltimore were located. the zip code at the top? 21217, where i live. the rates are between 13 and 15%.

during the workshop, though, something hit me. we have all these things of hand sanitizer all throughout the house where i work, people have to wash their hands before they touch anything, all our dishes are washed with bleach, stuff like that. we have several HIV positive and some AIDS defined residents, as well as several residents with other contagious blood borne and other diseases. i always assumed that all the hand washing precautions, the special little sleeve over the thermometer for taking temperatures, the plastic gloves i have to wear when doing anything medical with the clients, all of that, was to protect me (and the other people in the house without HIV or hepatitis or whatever else) from contracting those diseases. i thought it was a little silly, you know, since of course you can't get those illnesses from sharing dishes, bathrooms, etc, but i thought it was just a universal precaution to protect the healthy from the ill. tonight at the class, i sneezed, and i sneezed into my hand instead of my sleeve, like you're supposed to. "oops" i thought. "oh well". then i realized that every other person in the room was HIV positive. then i realized that all that hand washing, disinfecting, bleaching, plastic sleeves, and rubber gloves weren't to protect me. that's to protect them FROM me, from my germs. from the things i bring in, from the things my body can fight off. how stupid and upper class and privileged of me to assume that all of those things were for my benefit, and how self-righteous of me to be proud of the fact that i don't mind sharing dishes and cups and whatever else. it's not about me, it's about them. it's been a long time since i've felt so much shame at a realization of such a misconception, because it applies to so much else in my life. i've spent 22 years assuming it was about me, for me, because of me. i think i'm finally seeing that it's not.

i hope i haven't given anyone anything, because these people are quickly blurring the lines between clients and friends.

so, work has remained enjoyable. last week was especially great, as i obtained several days' worth of food. first, i was given a 50 pound bag of potatoes, because the shelter had 3 and couldn't eat them all before they went bad. then, i was taken out to lunch with all the other volunteers, which was quite exciting. i got a brownie for desert, but it was actually 2 separate brownies, both huge, so i saved one. when i got back to the office, my boss gave me a doughnut. well, first she just offered it, and i said no since i was full from lunch and had just eaten a brownie. but she was quite insistent, so i finally took it and wrapped it in a napkin to save with the brownie. then one of the clients came in (one of my favorites) and asked if i liked pie. i thought he was just curious, so i told him yeah, i love pie. he pulled a little boxed cherry pie out of his bag, and put it on my desk. then he saw that i had, in addition to the pie, a doughnut and a brownie, and he scowled at me and said "eat something healthy!" and pulled a banana out of his bag and added it to my stash. then yesterday i was put in charge of organizing and re-stocking the food pantry here, and got to take home a giant bag of dried cherries for my efforts (they have the STRANGEST random canned goods here, i swear...). then this morning the same guy who gave me the pie and banana gave me some of his hot chocolate. basically, the point of this entry is that it would be foolish to think that walking a mile and a half to and from work every day would result in weight loss. this job is going to cause me to gain weight, and i'm not sure i'm going to protest. after all, we can't really afford luxuries like "food" right now, and i'm prepared to accept whatever i can.

the clients here are just incredible. i thought that it would be hard to be a caretaker (of sorts) for these people, but i find they take care of me as much as i take care of them. my favorite client and i have had multiple conversations about relationships and love and marriage, and he always calls me mags and sweetheart. reading over that, it could sound really creepy, but it isn't at all. he's in his late 50s and isn't flirting, it's very much a fraternal/paternal kind of thing. he is the oldest of 5 boys and always says how he wanted a little sister, how he would have treated her like a queen. i am more than happy to fulfil that role for him. the clients are also always telling me to be careful, and saying the worry about me walking to and from work. these fears are justified, but mostly it makes me feel loved. nothing makes me feel loved like knowing someone is thinking about me and concerned for me, you know? of course, their fears also concern me, since if anyone knows what's going on in certain neighborhoods as far as drug use and crime, it's our residents. when they say to never walk down linden, even in the day, because the gangs there are out all the time and armed, i'm going to listen. linden is the next street over from mine, by the way.

the job isn't perfect, of course. for one thing, it's really far from angela. for another, i don't get paid (i was, obviously, aware of this fact before starting, but i guess it didn't hit me until now. today i bought a diet coke on the way to work, and it was $1.50, which means i worked 4 hours and 42 minutes to earn it. 4 hours and 42 minutes for 20 ounces of diet coke. that's 4.25 ounces i earn an hour. so i won't be buying a whole lot of diet cokes. but that's ok, i'm not here for the cokes. as i resist coke-a-cola, my clients will resist cocaine, and we'll drink hot chocolate and eat pie to make it through together.

work work work

so far, the adjustment from school life to work life has been a little tough, but not horrible. it helps that my job is amazing. here are some of my favorite perks:

-conversations with 56-year-old homeless crack addict veterans about why i don't have a boyfriend (now there is a conversation that could go on for days...)
-being called "doll baby" by elderly black women
-cross cultural experiences, like eating fried chicken necks (surprisingly good!)
-educating baltimore's homeless population on the differences between mormons, mennonites, and the amish
-having work pay for me to take classes on addiction, HIV and AIDS, and psychiatric drug distribution/monitoring and having it count towards my work hours
-seeing someone who has been living on the streets, taking and selling drugs, and working as a prostitute for 20 years move into permanent housing
-getting 50 pound bags of potatoes for free

i'm sure there will be more. i was pretty scared when they said i would be working as an advocacy counselor at a transitional homeless shelter that specializes in people with a dual-diagnosis of both a severe mental illness (or multiple illnesses) and substance abuse issues. but it has been amazing- only 2 people sent to the emergency room in the past 2 weeks! i guess in this line of work, we count that- and everything else- as a blessing.

charm city!?

So, I've moved to Baltimore. I had previously only been to Baltimore 4 times- twice to go to the aquarium, once to go to a red hot chili peppers concert, and to be there when my nephew was born. I grew up only an hour away, but never actually visited Baltimore because I was lead to believe that Baltimore was dirty and dangerous and that I would be shot on sight, more or less, if I ever dared enter the city limits.

I have never been more convinced that those things are true than over the past 6 days.

I moved in on Wednesday, to a large Victorian mansion in the Reservoir Hill neighborhood in northwest Baltimore (clue: northwest is the bad part). Don't get too excited about the mansion, though- it IS awesome, but it is infested with mice and cockroaches and has no ac and a lot of it is falling apart. It really is a beautiful house, though, and I share it with about 14 amazing people, including refugees from Cameroon (three of them! we are little Cameroon) and Iraq. I live on the third floor with 3 other girls who are also doing Mennonite Voluntary Service. We have room for another volunteer, AND we have a guest room, so please keep Baltimore in mind as you plan your travels! Just make sure you arrive and leave in the daylight. And have a gun. And several dogs.

No, the neighborhood isn't THAT bad. well, ok, it is. We live in the blue light district. There are these big poles with blue lights every few blocks that have cameras on them that show people at the police station live video feed of what's going on. That's how much crime happens here- they videotape it (likely while eating pop corn and ice cream sandwiches) and then, occasionally, send officers. Our house was broken into 6 times last year, so it now has bars on most of the windows and big, scary razor-looking things on the gutters to prevent people from climbing them. We have a small parking lot behind our house, and we frequently find used condoms and syringes back there. Last week, a girl was mugged as she brought her bike into the house, literally AT the door step. There are plenty of drugs and prostitutes to go around, and from the roof (which we can get to from the attic and see a LOT of Baltimore- very cool) you can watch the bigger-than-squirrel-sized rats play in the dumpster across the street. A few blocks away the neighborhood gets even rougher, and the Iraqi refugee who lives in our house says that area makes him homesick because the amount of boarded up and burned out houses and trash in the street makes it look like Iraq. I now call it the Iraqi district in my head.

I started work today, and when I told the people there where I lived they were astounded. They promptly changed my work schedule from 9-5 to 8-4 so I would never have to walk home in the dark (the walk takes about a half an hour). They also said to never, ever walk down Linden street, even in the daylight, because the gangs there are active all the time, not just at night. That's the next street over from mine.

So, it's a new experience, on pretty much every level. But I keep reminding myself how lucky I am to be here. The other night I didn't want to go to bed just yet and I wandered into the kitchen where I was able to talk to some of the refugees about their home countries and what they think about the U.S., what they like and what they miss. I haven't had a lot of opportunities to talk to people with experiences so different from mine before, and it is so exciting and enlightening. Work seems like it will be great, too. Today was my first day, so I didn't do much. I will be working as an advocacy counselor at a transitional housing facility for formerly homeless men and women. The house I will work in specializes in people with mental health issues. It is home to about 10 men (all veterans of the U.S. armed forces) and 4 women. I know this will be a huge challenge for me, but I am really looking forward to working with and getting to know the residents.

So, this year will be strange. I'm not allowed out after dark, and if I find myself already out when it gets dark, I have to find a cab willing to take me home. Apparently many cabs won't take us home at night because they refuse to go into this neighborhood after dark. I will be working to help people get their lives together, preparing for jobs and paying rent and all of that, which I feel very ill-prepared to do. I live in little Cameroon, next to the Iraqi district. Yes, this year will be strange. Strange but awesome.

part of me knows that $1.85 is too much to pay for the espresso brownie at starbucks. another part of me knows i would pay much more than that. i wish they put less crack in those :o(

Growing up in my family, the love of reading was just as much a given as converting oxygen into carbon dioxide. My father is a journalist and both of my sisters are currently writers. Even though one of my sisters and I both have dyslexia, the we still caught the reading bug. We just caught it at 7 instead of 2 like my oldest sister. My parents' house is full of books, with one room's walls entirely covered by built-in bookcases. To my knowledge, no one really reads any of these books anymore (with the possible exception of my mom, who still looks up things in our 1994 edition encyclopedias because she thinks "to google" is an R-rated verb) but I think we all like knowing that they're there.

The tendency to collect and hold on to books is in my blood, and my room at my parents' house is just as full of literature as any other room, if not more so. I have one free standing bookcase that is overly-full of books, a row two and three deep along one wall, and 3 more full shelves in the walk in closet. As part of my move in September, I have started trying to cut down on my possessions. Clothes were fairly easy- anything that didn't fit or I hadn't worn in a year was gone. I only need one pair of jeans. I only need one black shirt. I can let go of the clothes. Books were not so easy. I decided to go through them this past weekend while I was home alone (with the dogs) while my parents were at the beach. I poured myself some red wine, turned on some Shostakovitch, which felt appropriate, and dug in.

Books aren't like clothes. You can't ever outgrow certain "children's" books, and even if I haven't read _The Secrert Garden_ in a year (or 8) you'll have a tough time getting me to let go of it. My sister was telling me that when she went through her books to cut them down to the essentials, she only kept ones that she would purchase again if she were to loose everything in a fire. I've thought about it a lot, and I think if I were to loose all my books in a fire, I would only replace a few of them. I would buy a new Bible (hopefully the same edition as mine so I could still know where everything is). I would buy _The Irresistible Revolution_ by Shane Claiborne, and I would buy _The Old Man and the Sea_. I would hope someone would give me the complete set of classic Winnie the Pooh books, but I wouldn't buy it myself.

Lucky for me, my books were not all lost in a fire. Rather, I vowed that i would keep only what i could fit on my one bookcase (which is well over 6 feet tall) and nothing more. I ended up breaking them into categories, and then arranging the categories into (what I felt was) a logical order. At the top is poetry and classics, heavy on the poetry. The classics I kept were largely from Hemingway, Dickens, and Steinbeck. The next shelf houses the most influential books from my classes at college, from the politics of human rights to environmental political theory to liberation theology. These flowed easily into all the other liberation theology I have purchased, which flowed nicely into more or less "applied" versions of these books, like _Rich Christians in an Age of Hunger_ and _Practical Justice_. These transition into (and this only makes sense if you're me, which I am) travel books, including a Swahili- English dictionary I stole from the Reston public library. Actually, the travel section could just as easily be the Africa section, except for one book on the politics of Central America that I read during my breaks in the back room one summer at the zoo. From there we go to the memoirs of several people who worked with international humanitarian groups and true-life accounts of child soldiers, which leads into what I called in my head "regular good books". In this section I grouped authors together, which means one shelf is almost entirely taken up by Toni Morison and Chaim Potok. These section is also home to several children's or young adult books. S. E. Hinton makes an impressive showing. From these we have "funny good books", where Dave Barry, Christopher Moore, and Nick Hornby all make impressive contributions, numbers wise. The bottom shelf is books about horses and books about art. Art could have fit in well with my books from college, but to be honest, several of them were just too tall for that shelf. A few things I managed to save from selling by giving them to my nephew (who better enjoy those Beatrix Potter books I adored so much as a child) and the rest- five giant bags full- are heading to the used book store.

I think the books I'm giving away are almost as interesting as what I'm keeping. For example, those bags contain three copies of _Emma_ and two of _Oliver Twist_, neither of which I have ever read. There are several books on Hindu mythology, and at least 5 on the Bolshevik Revolution in Russia. What can I say, I had some interesting phases in junior high.

I love every single book left on that book case. I will probably pack only the essentials to Baltimore (the "fire re-purchase" books, plus a few others but I like knowing the rest of them are there, waiting for me. In all likelihood I will only end up selling the rest at the end of this year, hopefully in preparation for some exotic several-year trip in a developing tropical country, but I'm not ready just yet. In this strange time between adolescence and adulthood, between the sheltered suburbs and inner city Baltimore, college and a "job", I don't yet know how to define myself, and I'm happy to let my bookcase do that. Poetry, politics, theology, travel, and young adulthood mixed in- I'm all there. I know I will continue to cut titles, and even entire sections (because let's be honest, the horse section can't last much longer) but for now, it's where and who I am.

let me run through my day for you so far.

7:15 am: Maggie wants to sleep until her alarm goes off at 7:30. Jack wants to yell what can only be assumed to mean "THIS BABY IS EQUIPPED WITH LUNGS AND ABLE TO YELL! HEY EVERYONE! I LEARNED HOW TO YELL! HEY! HEY! HEY EVERYONE!"

8:10 am: Maggie wants to watch saved by the bell. Jack wants to throw up on Maggie.

9:15 am: Maggie wants to take a shower. Jack wants to cry. Maggie finishes shower, picks up jack, who promptly throws up her. Again.

10:15 am: Maggie wants to watch E.R. Jack wants to scream.

11:30 am: Jack continues to scream. Maggie wants to die.

11:45 am: Jack finishes eating, is burped, and falls asleep for exactly 5 minutes, then resumes screaming. Maggie tries to decide if she should kill Jack or herself. Realizing Jack would be much, much more missed than she would be, she decides she should be the one to go. Then Maggie realizes Kristen might be mad if she leaves Jack unattended and in the same room as a dead body. Maggie takes Jack to the mall.

12:45 pm: Jack wants to sleep, but only if the stroller is moving. Maggie wants to try on a dress. Maggie puts on dress in dressing room, but the stroller is stopped, so Jack wakes up, and, of course, screams. Maggie leaves the store, embarrassed. Jack falls back asleep.

3:30 pm: at the library to use internet. Maggie wants to either surf internet, take a nap, or call her college roommate and cry and miss college. Jack wants to yell.

Jack always wins. Always. the "i'm 8 weeks old, bitch!" is a trump card that i simply can't compete with.

------------------------

this is a really exciting time for my friends and i. we all just graduated college, and are all doing really different things. some are going to grad school, some are getting jobs (or trying to). some got married or are getting married. one is in the peace corps in Kazakhstan, one is teaching in english in tanzania, one is teaching english in france. in september, i'll be moving into a community house owned by the north baltimore mennonite church. the house is currently home to about 12 people. there will be about 4 volunteers thorough the mennonite voluntary service (like me), a few boarders, and a few refugees from places like Iraq, ethiopia, and camaroon. I'll be working as a personal advocacy counselor at a homeless shelter in the city.

i'm really excited about my "job", and even more excited about my house and housemates. my friends are also excited about grad school or jobs or marriage, whatever they're doing. i'm excited. i really am. but as i prepare to enter this semi- "real world" where things like health insurance and dinner and transportation are things no longer handed to me, i can't help but miss school a little bit. i'm realizing, thanks to jackson, how incredibly selfish the last 22 years of my life have been, especially the last 4. the reason it's hard for me to stop everything i'm doing and ignore what i want to tend to the needs of someone else is because i've never had to worry about anyone but myself before. i know it's good for me to learn to be more selfless, especially since i'll be taking care of (adult) people at the shelter next year. i don't expect they will need or ask me to wipe their butts or feed them breast milk (God, I hope not) but i know that there will be times when i'll want to sleep (or eat, or go home, or call my roommate and cry) and they'll need something, and i will have to forget about what i need or want and take care of them and their needs. that's what my job will be, that's what i WANT my job to be, i WANT to take care of people. i'm good at it and i enjoy it, but holy crap, sometimes it's draining.

i keep thinking about my senior year in college. i keep remembering "beer, backrub, and bachelor" nights where my friends and i would drink beer, give each other backrubs, and watch the bachelor online (God, i could go for a good backrub). Or nights when we'd go out to a bar and come back slightly inebriated, arguing about if i should write on that guy's facebook wall again (the answer to that question is ALWAYS no, but unfortunately, angela was never once able to convince me of this). i'll miss waking up on saturdays at 11, looking over and seeing my roommate on her computer, getting up and playing on the internet, then lazily walking to the cafeteria for a brunch of scrambled eggs, pizza, and diet coke. i'm going to miss staying up til 2 and writing papers. i'm going to miss having access to amazing art facilities and incredible faculty. i'm going to miss knowing about 40% of the people i see, by face if not by name. i'm going to miss living with my best friends.

actually... i already do.

and again, i'm excited about this new chapter in my life, and i do love taking care of jack. and leaving school doesn't mean i've stopped learning. for example, i have learned that i don't want kids for at least another 43 years, and i will learn how to get around on the baltimore bus system. but i still can't help feeling while i'm trying to convince an 8 week old that he really, really will be happier if he stops spitting out his pacifier, and look ahead to a life where i am expected to be out of bed before 10 EVERY DAY and to never wear my pajamas to work, i can't help but feel a little sad about the life i've already left behind. maybe we're never ready to move on. maybe it's better to leave while i still like it, to keep college as a happy place, full of good memories. maybe it isn't all downhill from here. maybe i'll like grocery shopping.

i don't know, though. i'm going to call my roommate; she knows most stuff.

effective birth control

i'm working as a live-in nanny this summer for a baby who is currently 7 weeks and 1 day old. the baby doubles as my nephew, and my bosses double as my sister and brother-in-law, something that is convenient for me. i think if it were a "real" job, sending the mother texts like "your baby is broken- scream button stuck" while she's at work would be frowned upon.

anyway, i've been thinking of posting about this job for a long time, but every time i sit down to do it, the baby freaks out, or the internet (which is wireless stolen from the neighbors) breaks, or it's after 9:30, which is pretty much when i pass out.
it's just as well, though, since my days currently consist of dodging projectile spit- up, warming up and testing the temperature of breast milk that is not from my breasts, and living in constant fear that i will loose the one binky that jackson actually likes. also, i have incorporated words like "binky" into my everyday vocabulary, which is, i think, a substantial transition in and of itself. one of the strangest things is that when i take him out in public people think he's my baby, what with him being strapped to my chest in his "snuggli" and all. the thing is, i look a lot younger than i am. (case in point: i was carded for an R-rated movie. at age 22. which means they thought i was 16 or younger. WHEN I WAS 22.) as a result, i get some funny looks when out with jack. that kind of curious, pitying, judging look reserved for unwed teenage mothers and people who dress to match their pets. because of that, i've taken to wearing my ring on my left ring finger, but turned upside down, so it looks like a wedding band and not a $15 ring from amercian eagle with a horse shoe on it. i also frequently consider screaming things like "YEAH, YOU WATCH YOURSELF!" or "IT HAPPENS MORE EASILY THAN YOU THINK!!" at teenage couples i see holding hands in the mall; they're the ones who give me the best looks, this combination of fear and "that will never be me" self-righteousness. sure it won't, sweetie.

anyway, so that's how my life is going right now. i'm lucky if i brush my teeth before 11 and shower before 2. my day centers around breastfeeding (uh, again, from a bottle, not my breast milk) and diaper changes. i get really excited about things like going to the post office (CONTACT WITH THE OUTSIDE WORLD!!!) and when i can make this 12 pound person burp.

it's mind-numbingly boring most of the time, with interjections of ear-splitting screams. i get really lonely, and really, really frustrated sometimes. but the thing is, a 7 week old can smile, and when he looks at me and smiles, i almost re-consider my plan to leave him on the front porch with a sign that says "free". of course, when he's screaming and refuses to be consoled, my plan becomes leaving him on someone ELSE'S porch with a $50 taped to his chest.

all in all, though, it's more than worth it, and i'll seriously miss him when i move out in september into a house with 12 adults and no binkies or snugglies. i doubt anyone there will cuddle with me while we watch er (from 10- 11 and, if we don't fall asleep, 11- 12) and not laugh when i cry at the sweet episodes of "the office". but they probably also won't make me wipe poop off thier asses, so maybe it's an even trade.

well that stinks.

since coming home from kenya i've made much more of an effort to be socially conscious in my purchases. things like making a strong effort to buy certified sweatshop free clothing, or, more often, second hand clothing, helps me not feel like my gap jeans are laced with the blood and sweat of Chinese children. things like that. it's a fuzzy line, though, as to where "socially conscious" becomes "trendy and stupid".

one decision that continually baffles me is the choice between buying the cheapest possible toiletries (because spending $20 for foundation when the same $20 could vaccinate a child against 5 preventable childhood diseases is wrong, regardless of how glowing and flawless it makes my complexion) or buying, say, $9 organic, fair trade shampoo (because then i know it's not in a bottle made in Vietnam by exploited workers, put in said bottles in Bangladesh by underpaid children, after the chemical runoff from the grown ingredients and all the byproducts are dumped into the amazon (or whatever the hell the process is before it gets to target)). i don't know. this makes it very, very stressful for me every time i run out of shampoo or soap or toothpaste, because lives depend on my hygine choices- sometimes the lives of CUTE CHILDREN, or worse, HANDSOME MEN. i generally try to work it out so i can buy organic, fair trade things when they go on sale, but that doesn't always happen.

so, anyway, long, boring story short, i went off the organic deep end this summer, plummeting head first into a deep, deep pool of organic aloe vera and carefully cultivated lilac and rose hips (which was sticky). i bought a bottle of organic, fair trade, hemp and orange all-purpose "magic soap", made by dr. bronners. i bought it BEFORE i went to the company website and read that the formula was developed after the original dr. bronner escaped from a dutch insane asylum; i wouldn't have bought it if i knew it was crazy soap. i was seduced by it's claim to be 18 kinds of soap in one, including shampoo, body wash, dish soap, and toothpaste; clearly this was a product that could change my life, so i bought it, and it is AWESOME. it smells great, and i feel clean, and i love that it is organic and fair trade and family owned and the highest paid employee at the company makes just 5 times the amount of the lowest paid employee. at first i thought that was a lot, then i learned that in 2000, the average u.s. CEO made over 500 times the amount of the lowest paid employee in the company; suddenly, i could respect a cap at 5 times the amount.

not all such adventures into the large, hemp-scented world of organic toiletries were so glorious. i tried organic toothpaste, Tom's of Maine, specifically, which was awful. it was advertised as being "spearmint" flavored, but really was simply "bland white paste" flavored. i used it, because it was expensive, but let's just say i wasn't kissing anybody that month. um, or really any of the past few months. but i digress. i did give the organic toothpaste another try, though, and bought nature's gate brand peppermint flavor, which tastes much better, but, i later realized, is not fair trade (like Tom's) or give any of its proceeds to wilderness conservation (like Tom's). dammit.

so anyway, the biggest plunge i took was in switching to organic deodorant. risking that my hair might be slightly less supple and shiny is one thing, but risking becoming a stinky, sweaty mess is quite another. still, with some research claiming that the active ingredient in antiperspirants, aluminum, can lead to breast cancer, and the fact that all the other funky chemicals in there are bad for my armpits (and other living things), and that they're manufactured God knows where by Lord knows who being compensated in Jesus knows what way, i decided i might as well try. plus, one was made by Toms, a company i already respected, and it was rose and honeysuckle scented. now, if there is anything i'd like my armpits to smell like MORE than Secret Platinum Protection Powder Fresh, it is roses and honeysuckle. so i bought it. and you know what? i'm a stinky, sweaty mess. i smelled like roses and honeysuckle for about 56 seconds, but then the sun came up, and it all went to hell. even though the container says the formula now contains hops (uh, isn't that a main ingredient in beer?) and that should help me smell better, it did not.

this wouldn't be SUCH a big deal, except i also forgot my razor at my parents' house, and now live at my sister's house. so i haven't shaved in a few days. so i'm getting a little hairy. and am now stinky as well. so, yes, in one weekend, i went from someone who dabbled in burt's bees lip balm to a full, all out, lentil eating, Birkenstocks wearing, henna hair dying, stinky, hairy, dirty hippie. it was a short but painful fall.

to be fair, though, i don't actually have Birkenstocks, i wear chocos. and i'm not dirty, i use dr. bronner's magic soap.

on riding

When I was in junior high, my mom said that the only time I ever sat up straight was when I was on a horse. I started riding when I was 8 and rode every week, sometimes several times a week, until I graduated high school. I leased my first horse, Dusty, when I was in seventh grade. Later in high school I began to show horses, usually a temperamental chestnut quarter horse named Kirov. He had a violent temper and, as a result, had his own field separated from the other horses and a stall in an isolated part of the barn. He had no fear of anything or anyone, would jump anything you put in front of him, and throw any rider he didn't like. We were a great team.

I know that riding is a privilege usually reserved for the upper crust of society. I know that, stereotypically, it the sport of stuffy upper class British men or, worse, spoiled American tweens. Although my parents did make me work off many of my lessons by cleaning stalls, cleaning tack, and doing other various chores at the barn, it was really more on principal than out of necessity. Over the years my parents must have spent thousands of dollars on riding lessons, boots, brushes, tack, show fees, leasing horses, and, of course, every saddle club book ever published. When I think about the money that was spent on my hobby, I can't help but cringe.

At the same time, it is hard for me to classify riding as a complete waste of time and money. In high school, I dealt with self-esteem issues (like everyone), depression (like most people), and an eating disorder (like all too many people). Riding was one of the only constants in my life, the one thing that I did all the time, and one of the only things I did well. I slouched while sitting, standing, and walking because I was scared and shy and ashamed of who I was, but I sat up straight on a horse because it was a place I could feel confident, comfortable, and strangely enough, safe. I had to respect myself while riding because a horse won't respect a person who doesn't respect herself. I learned to be confident and commanding while maintaining composure. It is difficult to get a 2,000 pound animal to do anything, let alone take make an circle with an exactly 30 meter diameter, jump a 4 foot fence, or bend his neck at a perfect arch; riding takes strength, determination, and self-assurance. Riding taught me patience and to put my needs and desires second to the needs and desires of someone else. Many mornings before 7:00 I ignored my own hunger to feed 35 horses breakfast, many evenings I sat pulling briars out of my leased pony, Yankee's, tail until my fingers bled. I learned that the sport is more than the glamour of showing and jumping; like anything, you have to shovel a lot of shit to get anywhere worthwhile.

I stopped riding when I graduated high school, but not for long. I rode again the summer after freshman year, although my beloved Kirov had died of intestinal cancer. I instead leased a massive, barely broken draft cross named Ranger. He was... difficult. After that I began riding at school as well, taking lessons from a trainer north of the twin cities. It felt good and right to be in the saddle again, to forget everything else going on in the world and my life and focus exclusively on the task at hand. That's another thing about riding: it forces you to focus, to really, really concentrate, because the last thing you want to be thinking about while in mid-air over a jump on a horse is English homework or some guy. Of course, accidents happen even while focused, and on February 20, 2007 I was thrown from a horse. He was a giant, gorgeous bay gelding named Dante, perhaps 4 or 5 years old. He was a good horse, but feeling anxious, and as we cleared the last jump of a course he started bucking. I sat two of them (thank you very much) but was thrown over his head by the third, landing flat on my back in front of him. I broke my back in three places and ruptured a disc. It hurt.

But even this I count as a blessing, because at no other time has my strength been tested like that. After some time bedridden, and some time in a ridiculous brace, and some time in physical therapy, I'm (more or less) recovered, and evermore thankful for my life and mobility. I was inches from being paralyzed, and now often find myself checking buildings for wheelchair access, wondering what my life would be like had a landed just a little differently.

I've only ridden twice since the accident, due to financial reasons. It is harder and harder for me to justify spending so much money to feed and care for and ride animals when humans around the world starve to death. I can't bring myself to fork over $60 for an hour of riding when that amount of money give 60 people clean water for a year (http://www.bloodwatermission.com/). But I still don't regret the time and money spent on my behalf to ride horses, because it has made me who I am and taught me things I don't know that I would have learned any other way.

Today I packed up all of my riding gear- my boots, chaps, helmet, pants, show shirt, show coat, brushes, boxes, crops, etc- to give to lift me up, a therapeutic riding program for kids with developmental and/or emotional disabilities (http://www.liftmeup.org/). I will miss riding, but can no longer justify it to myself (especially since my income next year will be (ta-da!) $50 a month). But I sincerely hope that my boots and spurs and tack will be used by some other kid who needs them, not just to have fun, but to learn about hard work and self respect and caring for living things. I also hope they make the kids who are physically able clean the stalls and throw hay once in a while; it's good for them.

montana night

"I hear these put three times the amount of tar in your lungs," she said, with more than a little pride in her ability to take her own life in her hands.
"I just think they taste good. Like herbs," I said, still secretly wondering if I was doing it wrong.
We sat for a few silent minutes, admiring the Montana stars at midnight and the mountains we couldn't see.
Taking a drink, I said, "I feel like we're twelve, sneaking cigarettes and beer in the backyard," knowing full well that at twelve I was far more interested in early American poetry and the U.S. equestrian team than alcohol, that I hadn't had any alcohol until I was a month away from 20, and this was only my second time smoking cloves, having smoked hookah twice before that. I never smoke or drank at twelve, and she knew it.
She stayed silent. We had been friends since we were six, but I was suddenly unsure of myself, wondering what, exactly, she had done at twelve without me.

artist statement

It's been twelve months since I left Kenya and there in the fourth week I saw the first and only dead body I've ever seen-- a child. On a cot in the Kakamega public hospital (not the one for white people) I think he starved to death. So skinny and dead. Oh god oh god he's dead that one on the cot he's dead muffled Kiswahili skinny dead.The day we took the babies to the clinic I picked the chubby baby because I needed one to be healthy and I needed to hear she was going to be OK and carry her out and feel better but they said no, this one, she's not fat because she's eating, she's fat because she's being eaten. Parasites, they said, that whole big belly of yours full of worms, all 20 pounds of you were parasitic worms and you weren't OK and I'm sorry I'm so sorry I chose you to take to the clinic and I'm sorry I never knew your name and I'm sorry that you're not OK.


I'm sorry, Bonnie and Maxwell and Ben and Luvembe and Wyclif and Steven and Eric and Issac. I'm sorry. I'm sorry I left you. I'm sorry all I ever gave you was a soccer ball. I'm sorry I didn't give you the candy bar the day on the street when you were high. I was so scared. You're twelve and I'm scared. I'm sorry if you're dead now and I'm sorry I don't know if you're dead. And baby Joesph with the yellow hat, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry I put you down I had to leave we had to leave I had to leave Mathare. And baby Nakariah from Huruma-- Huruma, it means Mercy-- they call you and orphan but someone had to put you in the dumpster where they found you. Who, baby, who? And Kathleen stared at the chest of that boy she held and told me over and over she had to watch his chest to see if he's still breathing is he breathing he's not breathing and that one, that one is dead now, I'm quite sure of it.


30,000 every 24 hours. 20.83 a minute. I made 25 a minute so I could stay ahead of you but 2,460,000 more starved to death in the two months it took me to make this one day.






more images at www.maggiepageonline.com