Telling the Story:
Letters Home from SOL 2004 Interns

Albuquerque, New Mexico
"Five Minutes" - Lin Lin
"Mr. Galan and his City" - Lynn Zhang

Cape Town, South Africa
"Buyiswa" - Linda Arnade
"Compartments" - Tomas Lopez
"Inside, Outside" - Adam Yoffie

Charlotte, North Carolina
"Early Impressions of Charlotte" - Jeff Faulring
"Substance-free zones" - Emily Ladue
"Colored Town" - Vijay Varma

Chicago, Illinois
"On Deaf Ears" - Chris Carlberg
"A Cross Around my Neck" - Hanna Kim
"Prisoner of the United States" - Suparna Salil

Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania
" Three breaths and a box full of wound supplies" - Alexandra Oliveira
" Chardai" - Danae Plattenberg

ALBUQUERQUE

Five Minutes
Lin Lin

What is five minutes to the life of an individual? The amount of time an alarm clock buzzes continuously before a summer intern wakes up in the morning. The amount of time a bachelor takes to microwave his raman noodles late at night. The amount of time that elapses before a college student re-checks his email. But to one brother, five minutes seemed like an eternity…

During a staff meeting at Catholic Charities last week, we were informed by our supervisor that a new refugee family of three from Iran was to arrive at Albuquerque Airport at 3:00pm on Thursday, June 17th. After some brief and rather interesting discussions, there was broad support to the suggestion that since this family had been through so much physical and emotional trauma during their long stay in the refugee camps, the first person they see in America should be someone who is “small and non-threatening.” Being one who is barely 5’1 with a petite body frame and a young looking face, I topped the rest in the competition pool for the honor of picking this family up from the airport. I was told that they will be resettled in Roswell, a town three and a half hours south of Albuquerque that is famous for its UFO museum and little else. The reason that this family will be going to this rather isolated town in the middle of nowhere was that the wife has a brother living there and he had insisted on taking them in. So with great excitement and little instructions, I arrived at the airport.

I walked into the waiting area outside of the passenger terminal around 2:45pm or so. Casually I checked the flight monitors and breathed a sigh of relief that the flight was arriving on time. My co-workers have been telling me horror stories about delayed flights causing case managers to wait in the airport for hours, or about refugees, confused and afraid, sitting inside the gates after arrival, while case managers worried outside at the pick-up area, or about miscommunications between refugee agencies and case managers, which lead to case managers’ picking up of refugees from non-existent flights. Since I was doing well on time, with at least fifteen minutes to spare, I decided to get a cup of coffee. As I walked toward the airport café, a middle-age man of about 50 approached me. He was Middle Eastern and there was a tremendous amount of gray dominating his hair and mustache. His eyes seemed exhausted, with a little tinge of red, perhaps from excessive worries throughout most of his life, but more likely from sleep deprivation and insomnia.

‘Excuse me, are you the representative from Catholic Charities?” He spoke to me in perfect English with the slightest of accents.

“Yes, I am from Catholic Charities, and I am here to pick up a family of three from Iran. I presume that you are the brother?”

“Yes, I am here to pick up my sister and her family. She will be very happy to know that Catholic Charities will help her during this transitional period. For that I too am very grateful.”
As he spoke, I was struck by the sincerity and the graciousness of his tone, but at the same time, I sensed an absent-mindedness in his voice which hinted at nerves.

“So how are you feeling? Nervous?” I tried to be as casual and as “non-threatening” as I possibly could.

“Oh believe me, nervousness doesn’t even begin to describe the way I feel right now. I have not slept well for the past three nights. I couldn’t sleep. I got so terribly excited, yet equally nervous, waiting for today to come. I paced up and down the house, woke up the wife and all the kids. I started driving at 5:00am this morning and got here by 9:00am, even though her plane is not scheduled to arrive till 3:00pm.” He forced a rather helpless laugh, his eyes deep in thought for a moment.

“When was the last time you’ve seen her?”

“Twenty-seven years ago…” It was almost like a whisper. “The last time I saw my sister, she was 15 years old.”

Subtly, I took out the little bio of the family that was faxed to me. Eighteen was the number written next to the age of the son. The nephew he has never seen is older than the sister he remembered. Silently, I folded the paper and stuffed it inside my pocket.

Just then, the flight monitor in front of us beeped and we both looked up and saw the status of a flight from Turkey changed from “on time” to “landed.” The family of three was coming in from Turkey. Their flight from Turkey had lasted a little more than ten hours. Just as their stay in a refugee camp in Turkey lasted a little more than ten years.

“Ah, here they are. Finally.” The brother’s lips curled up for a moment into an almost- half smile, but before it came into completion, it was quickly replaced by an unmistakable tension that clouded his face. The blinking of his eyes became more rapid, little drops of sweat appeared on his forehead, and as if by habit, he relapsed into a zone where he paced back and forth in front of the huge flight monitors.

The first wave of passengers hurried past by in clumps. Many were met by family and friends who had stood beside us moments before, while others raced to the baggage claim areas. Before long, the passenger passageway was quiet once again, with few occasional passersby. An old lady was wheeled out by an airport staff, and a couple of flight attendants chatted on their way out. A security guard walked back and forth. No family of three.

A few minutes passed in silence, and in the peripheral of my eyes I saw my companion raise and drop his head repeatedly, his eyes switching intensely between the flight monitor and his watch. He went into the nearby café to make sure that his watch showed the same time as the clock inside.

“You should be able to recognize my sister, she looks just like me.” He seemed to suddenly remember my presence, or maybe he was trying to solicit my help in locating the sister.

A second wave of passengers emerged. Countless strollers passed by, there were even families of three that excited me for a moment. But none of these trios fit our description. The child was a daughter and not a son, the mom had blond hair, the son seemed no more than 12 years of age.

“I don’t know which is longer, the past five minutes, or the past 27 years…” He was talking more to himself than to me, but it did cause me to look up. I couldn’t really see his eyes, because he was adjusting his glasses up and down, and for a moment, I thought I saw his palm wiping away the mist in his eyes.

Another few minutes passed by, and from a distance I saw a tall, lanky teenager whose head and shoulders stood above all the rest. He caught my eyes because he looked so confused, so awkward. He walked a few steps ahead, then turned his head as if to converse with the people behind him. As he came into view, I saw a couple behind him, equally as confused, and equally as awkward. The woman carried a bouquet of fresh flowers in her arm, while the man stood next to the teenager and pointed to some distance ahead, either to give his son directions, or to ask him questions.

“Is it them? Is she my sister? My eyes are blurry, and I can’t see. Please help me.” My companion desperately pleaded.

But he did not wait for me to answer. In a blink of an eye he ran toward the end of the terminal, arms outstretched, as the woman with the bouquet shoved the flowers into her husband’s arm. Freeing herself from the flowers, she ran into the arms of her brother. The impact was such that it almost seemed like they crashed into each other. With her hands covering her face, she sobbed, while he kissed her forehead repeatedly, saying her name in Farsi over and over again.

I searched in vain for a physical resemblance between the brother and the sister. Perhaps in childhood they had looked alike, or perhaps over the years his memory had tricked him into believing that they had looked alike, but the truth presented itself differently. When he finally released her from his embrace and gazed lovingly into her face, he was taken aback for a moment by the weathered face before him. Twenty-seven years stood between them. They had both aged, they had both seen hard times, and they had both lived lives without each other. There is much to learn and relearn, to remember and forget.

“New country, new life,” she spoke in broken English, but with a courage that had carried her through the years.
“New country, new life,” her brother whispered.

(back to top)

Mr. Galan and his City
Lynn Zhang

The sun, high in its cloudless sky, was failing in its battle against the air conditioner. The line moved quickly. Name. Birthday. Reason for visit. New? Fill these out. None that were in the line were turned away on this a slow day. The nurses brought back them back to fill the rooms one by one. Claudia with the white t-shirt and black hair and her boyfriend to room two. Teresa only fourteen with the blue jeans and her guardian to room seven. No, we will not release her information to you even if she is only fourteen. General health, yes, but the privacy of tests a minor can request without parental consent is protected by law. Again, ma’am, the answer is no. Mr. Understreet with the Sandia casino t-shirt to room four. We really need to refer you to another hospital. OK, OK, if you think the VA screwed you over that badly, we’ll try another option.

And I, sitting at the nurses station with my clipboard chock full of papers and info sheets, waited for the yellow magnet to go up. My clipboard bristled with helpful papers, with social assessment sheets, with UNM Cares insurance referrals, with shelter and soup kitchen contacts, with general assistance referrals, and it waited only for the sign of the yellow magnet under a patient’s room number to release its eager energy on the unsuspecting beneficiary.

Click. The yellow magnet goes up under room five.

“Gloria, so what does the man in room five need?”

“He hasn’t had a social assessment for more than two years. Last time we checked, he was living with family, but I’m sure that’s changed now. See what he needs. UNM Cares, most definitely, if he doesn’t have it.”

Knock, knock on room five.

“Come in.” The unruly and slightly thinning mass of straw colored hair spread down from his head. He was perhaps fifty, thin, with calm, pale blue eyes.

“Hi, Mr. Galan, my name is Lynn. I’m the client advocate. How’s your day been?”

“All right, all right.”

“Great, great. I just need to ask you a few questions and see what we can do for you. For starters, where have you been staying lately?”

“Just around, you know. On the street. See my girl friend kicked me out of her house ‘cause she found someone who makes more money. I got nothing right now.”

“Do you have any income?”

“I do odd jobs here and there. Make about $20 a day.”

“Are you receiving any benefits?”

“No.”

“Do you have any insurance?”

“No.”

“Any family in the area”

“No.”

“Well, first off, we can get you hooked up with UNM Cares so you can get prescriptions and better medical care. Did you need a place to stay? Joy Junction? The Rescue Misssion—?”

“Yeah, I know about the shelters around here. I’ll go to them if I really need to, but I think I’ll manage.”

“Would you like to apply for general assistance or food stamps? There’s a lady who comes in on Wednesdays who can help you with food stamps.”

“Well, I don’t really need food stamps now, and I’ve already applied for general assistance.”

“Do you want some employment centers or day labor locations?”

“Well, I know the day labor locations, and I am finding some work. Truth is, I’m a woodworker. I’m just trying to save enough to get my self going again, you know. Make some things that I can sell. But with this bad leg here, some day labor options are kind of off limits. Besides, like I said, I applied for general assistance and I can’t both work and receive general assistance, you know. So until this leg gets better, I’ll manage with what I have.”

“So I’ll get you that appointment to set up a UNM Cares account. Is there anything that you need?”

“No, I’m good.”

“Anything else that I can get you?”

A shake of the head and a smile from those pale blue eyes. And there was nothing left for me to do except go out and fill out the UNM form and make the UNM call. I didn’t actually know how general assistance worked. I didn’t know how food stamps worked, or day labor, or even UNM Cares for that matter. I mean, I knew what they were and what they did, but how they worked, Mr. Galan could have explained much better than I. It seemed only a matter of time—weeks, months, years—and I might be buying a carving from his stand at the Sante Fe folk art fair. And this was not the first time. Mr. Wilson to room three. No, no. Shelters are for those who really need it. My truck is good enough for me. I’ve been working pretty hard, and I expect to be hired pretty soon. Mr. Soto, right this way to room one. They just up and kicked me out of the pen a couple of weeks ago after six months time. I’m staying in a half-way house, but my time is running out. I just need a little money and time to tide me over this injury. I won’t be caught homeless. I can’t let it happen.

And on this night the crescent moon is lost in the immensity. Dusk creeps up on us, but we are prepared. First, large grids of light flicker to life along with the larger lighted spots of downtown and the various shopping centers. The grid shimmers weakly as the cars begin to respond in kind. Slowly the light grows stronger and little drops of light appear here and there in the dark spaces surrounding the grid. These gather in squares around the city and shortly glow bright and strong in their collective strength. Soon the land is laced with lights and we have defeated the dusk.

I pray for you Mr. Galan. Here is your city.

(back to top)

Capetown, South Africa

Buyiswa
Linda Arnade

“I can’t drive and just drive. I mean, I just can’t do that! So here, let me see the paper.” This is a typical Buyiswa (pronounced Boweswa) moment. As she was taking me out to a township when I first met her, Buyiswa insisted that she couldn’t “just drive,” but must help me learn Xhosa. She enthusiastically began writing down the way the words are spelled as she also drove. Buyiswa is one of the social workers for the Red Cross and is probably one of the most animated people I have met during my time with the organization. She has short curly black hair that tends to shake as she wildly throws her hands around while telling a story or making a comment. She almost always wears the red Red Cross T-shirt and a navy blue skirt over her slim chocolate brown legs. However, though she might seem fragile because of her skin-over-bones appearance, she has more spunk that anyone could possibly imagine.

She often has a funny story to share even when the topic is depressing. For example, one time we were discussing the crime rate in Cape Town, especially in the townships. She told me about waking up one morning feeling a cool breeze coming into her room, even though she had not left any windows or doors open. She walked out into the kitchen and realized that the outside door to her kitchen was open. To her amazement, the door to her refrigerator was also open. She concluded that someone must have been in her house (located in one of the slum shack areas known as townships) during the night, eaten her food, and may have stolen something. As she told this story, the high and low intonation of her voice and her dramatic hand movements to all sides made the images come alive. Suddenly, she let out a shrill cry that probably woke up all the patients lying down the hall saying how she could have been attacked or raped or something even worse. However, she then just smiled and exclaimed “…Man what can one do, but continue living…I can’t always be scared.” This is Buyiswa.

Her sense of humor lights up all Red Cross activities and she has made me feel especially welcome within the Home-Based Care Department. During my first week at a support group meeting she thoroughly explained the structure of the Home-Based Department and the difficulties they were experiencing since the manager left. She has a tendency to explain things over and over, but each time in a different way to make sure that you really understand. She always ends her sentences with the statement: “Linda, do you understand? I want you to understand. So do you really understand?” One day I didn’t really understand some aspect of the grant process and wanted to find out more. I asked her and she explained it in greater depth, but must have thought that her explanation was inadequate. So at the drop of a hat, she took me to the Department of Social Services, where she went inside to schedule an appointment and obtain a copy of a grant application. As I waited in the car, I realized that she did this despite other work she needed to do. She came out and dropped the grant application in my lap, exclaiming how they would barely give her an application. “I am a social worker and they won’t give me a social grant application. I don’t understand the government sometimes!”

This is the exact same strength, humor, and understanding that she gives to her HIV/AIDS patients, to her support group meetings, and to the income generation and vegetable garden projects. I clearly remember how she once showed me the income generation project of bead work and exclaimed to me with her contagious enthusiasm: “Do you see Linda, how much this bead making gives them a sense of purpose despite the fact they are infected with the virus. Do you see?” I thought I saw, but I did not see, as she, Buyiswa, saw. Buyiswa is able to invigorate people with energy despite her petite and slim frame. Sometimes I think she might have a more powerful effect on individuals suffering from HIV/AIDS than any anti-retroviral treatment.

(back to top)

Compartments
Tomas Lopez

I have been in South Africa for four weeks, and having reached the (approximate) halfway point of my time here, I am going through all the head-slapping and scratching that goes with that kind of retrospective moment. “Where did the time go?” “What have I done here?” “But have I done anything at all?” “What more can I do with the five weeks I have left here?” I wrote two weeks ago that I really didn’t yet feel as if I was in a foreign country. I don’t know how much more “immersed” or not I feel today, but I think there may be something to the idea that I’m compartmentalizing my life here in reaction to the intensity of everything around me.

Adam, Linda, and I live in a well furnished flat in a well-to-do neighborhood called Rondebosch. There’s a park in front of the mouth of the private road that leads to our house. Despite ever-present concerns about crime, I’ve seen men and women jogging by themselves around here well into the night. Down the street is Bishop’s, an exclusive prep school that reminds me a lot of the one I found myself in back in New York. Across is Rondebosch Boys, Bishop’s equally fancy rival. Up Campground Road I work out nearly daily at the Sports Science Institute of South Africa alongside Olympians, professionals, and other Americans. I can get all the soy food and oatmeal I want at four nearby supermarkets, and I can get a bottle of Castle Lager, a fine South African beer, for six rand – or one dollar. Living well here is relatively inexpensive. I certainly feel wealthier than I’ve ever felt before in my life. Naturally, it’s a nice, secure feeling.

I work at a non-governmental organization out of a house in Rosebank, another pleasant upper-class neighborhood 15 minutes away by foot. The South African Education and Environment Project (SAEP) conducts extramural programs at three high schools in the black townships on the Cape Flats, outside of the city’s original borders. The townships consist largely of informal settlements; my very first impression of Cape Town came from the sight of tin and plywood shacks stretching over the horizon. At SAEP, I get to visit very modest high schools surrounded by extreme poverty (and all that goes with it). While I don’t work at the schools as much I expected to (my internship coincides largely with school exam periods and holidays), I have been well exposed to this side of South African life through my interactions with the five township high school graduates who are SAEP’s gap year interns.

SAEP takes on five township high school graduates annually to commit to a gap year with the organization while they apply to universities. These interns work out of the organization’s office in Rosebank (which doubles as its directors’ home), and their efforts are central to SAEP’s programs. They are teachers (they conduct many of the programs themselves), journalists (they publish an SAEP newsletter which they sell for R1 at the schools), artists (several are avid poets, and others aspiring filmmakers), cultural border-crossers (they are often called upon to translate English into the complex, click-filled Xhosa spoken by many here in the Western Cape) and learners (their English language skills are far from polished, and their university acceptance prospects are uncertain). I spend more time with them than any other group of people here, save Adam and Linda. Part of my job at SAEP, aside from my research involving one of the high schools, involves mentoring the interns and preparing them for university. I edit their writing, brush up their CVs, work on their English, and discuss their hopes and dreams. They have taught me a lot about South Africa in both knowing and unintentional ways.

All of these interns have led intensely challenging lives to this point. Getting to know them has led me to believe that my numbness is not unique to being an American or a foreigner or an English speaker or an oblivious person. I believe that it may be central to life for nearly everyone here.

I spend much of my day in a small room in the SAEP house with the interns and four slow, buggy computers. We have a boom box that plays the latest South African hits, most of which are American. I spend a lot of time hopping from computer to computer co-editing articles or poems. Last Wednesday, Cebo, one of the interns, wanted me to see a poem that he was working on. The title wasn’t anything memorable, but I began to read the piece. It was well written but cryptic. It seemed to be about a funeral and made passing references to Christmas and family. It was clearly very emotional.

“What do you think, Tom?” Somehow, the interns have taken to calling me Tom. The only other people who call me Tom are family members.

“Well. I think it’s strong. Your language is very sharp.” I wasn’t sure how to proceed.

“I’m not sure about some of my metaphors. It could be clearer, maybe.”

“Hmm. What are you talking about here exactly?” I highlighted something in the first stanza.

“My brother was murdered a few years ago.” Cebo was very offhand about it.

“Ah. Well. And… Christmas?”

“He was killed Christmas night. The next day usually everyone goes to the beach, but we didn’t do that then.” That explained the Christmas references more than adequately.

Before I had the chance to respond, a popular kwaito track started playing on the radio. Kwaito is South African hip hop that’s sprung from the townships and is particularly popular there. It’s one of the few genuinely local aspects of the popular culture here. As “dinosaur” came on, Cebo and Thabo started dancing – and they wanted to see my moves. Dancing to “dinosaur” involves stomping around like a velociraptor. I kept my elbows pinned to my sides and froze my fingers in a clawing position, attempting to mimic what the guys were doing much more smoothly and knowingly. I bent my knees and spread my legs a shoulder-length apart. I took heavy steps around the room, alternating each leg’s push forward with a ginger shoulder shimmy. I did a circuit around the whole room – and, I’m proud to say, I didn’t fall. The interns couldn’t stop laughing. Nossisa tried covering her mouth, and Sandiso just looked down at his notebook and shook his head. Cebo was hunched over in a fit.

Then “dinosaur” ended, and an American tune came on; Ginuwine or Glenn Lewis – something smoother and mellower. We all returned to what we had been doing four minutes before. For me and Cebo, that meant editing that poem. We were talking about Christmas again.

“So I used the Christmas reference because my brother was killed Christmas night. I don’t want it to be not clear.”

“I don’t think it is.”

“I want this poem to be great, so I want to keep working on it.”

“We will.”

Just as I said that, Norton came in and pulled me out for a meeting.

Ten minutes before, Cebo and I started talking about his poem. Three minutes later, he made its meaning clear. Just then, “dinosaur” came on, and we danced and laughed like we’d been doing it all day. Four minutes later, we were back on the original topic: murder and mourning. And as soon as we were back on the topic, I was on my way out and the issue was closed. Cebo closed Microsoft Word and went to check his email on another computer.

Cebo’s ability to jump from talking about his brother’s murder to dancing to kwaito and back reminds me of the way I go to Philippi, walk among tin shacks, and return home to eat toast with some fancy apricot jam. It just seems too easy to me. One day last week I saw ten street children walking up to car windows at a single intersection in Rondebosch. Then I went and goofed off on my computer. I want to be more affected by what I see here, but it just seems as if I store it away on some dusty shelf in my brain’s medicine cabinet.

I’ve been really bothered by the fact that often I don’t feel that I’m in this distinct place called South Africa. The ease with which I seem to have handled the challenges I’ve encountered so far seems messed up. I’ve wondered if I’m oblivious, self-centered, ignorant, or just that laid-back. I’ve been thinking that maybe I just seek out home, as in America or Duke or New York, in everything I see here. But when Cebo told me about his elegy, stopped suddenly, danced “dinosaur,” hunched over laughing, and then resumed matter-of-factly relating his brother’s murder, I saw his emotional separation demonstrated in a shocking but personally familiar sequence. I think I might be more in South Africa than I’ve suspected.

*certain names have been changed

(back to top)

Inside, Outside
Adam Yoffie

I helped plan the event. I called the schools, designed the survey and the new youth pledge, and even helped prepare the speeches. Thembani, the official youth coordinator, was of course the primary organizer, but I served as his right hand man.

Thus I cannot avoid wondering why I had felt so out of place. It wasn’t race. I am already used to that. It wasn’t language. English was not the students’ mother-tongue, but they were still more than proficient in it. Perhaps it was my specific role during the event as photographer and recorder or perhaps I am just avoiding it – not wanting to mention it – not willing to admit that class will always make me an outsider in Cape Town.

June is Youth Month in South Africa. It commemorates the 1976 student uprisings that sparked the anti-apartheid struggle. Gun Free is particularly interested in expanding its programming in order to incorporate youth into its work and thus planned a major event to coincide with the activities of the month. As a result of its close proximity to Parliament, the Western Cape office has always focused on legislation. After years of struggle and dedication, the office managed to push through a sweeping new piece of legislation called the “Firearms Control Act,” which will come into effect on July 1st. Thus the office is eager to refocus its efforts on youth in order to ensure the proper implementation of the new laws. The office has done a few workshops in the schools in the past but has never been able to establish a lasting youth program.

My primary responsibility this summer is to prepare a report of recommendations on how the office can best work with youth. The youth speak-out this past Thursday was the first step in this new initiative. Fifteen schools from across the Western Cape were invited to attend and share an anti-gun message with the rest of the participants. Five youth members of Gun Free addressed the crowd about their experiences with gun violence and their work with the organization. There was an elementary school choir, a middle school dance and drum team, and a high school drama group. For close to three hours that afternoon, hundreds of learners (term for “students” in South Africa) denounced gun violence and called upon one another to create a safer democracy for South Africa.

It was like a dream come true for the organization, and I was fairly proud of my own contributions to the event. The survey was a smashing success, and the learners seemed to really take to the idea of signing the pledge. I was able to record parts of the speeches and take close to forty digital pictures. I even used my digital camera to record the entire crowd singing part of the national anthem. The timing was perfect. Four weeks into my summer, the organization had initiated its program, and I could now focus on how to best build upon the event.

All of the success should not really be a huge surprise to me. Coming into the summer, I had always felt that I was the perfect man for the job. I had extensive experience working with youth and even spent two years of my life working with youth in the specific area of gun control. During my junior year of high school, I sparked a grass-roots anti-gun movement that spanned the entire country. Yet the Teens Against Guns movement that “spanned the entire country,” spanned upper middle class Caucasian Jewish youth groups. I used the internet to communicate with fellow activists across the country and had my parents purchase a $300 flight for me to California so that I could bring my message to a national Jewish youth conference in the area. As a rabbi’s son who had attended Jewish private school and summer camp, I had no problem connecting with my peers. We shared similar political views and a passion for social justice.

This, however, is hardly the case in Cape Town. The idea of “social justice” only goes so far when your brother and cousin have been killed by gun violence, when another Columbine transpires everyday in your community, and when 120 Rand (approximately $20) is enough to entice a young child to commit murder. Ideologically and even intellectually speaking, my extensive experience working with youth has been beneficial. From a practical perspective, it has not meant shit. As I watched the speak-out unfold, I recognized that I had become the foreigner I had always dreaded. It was as if I were surrounded by a bubble, separated from the entire crowd.

There is no happy ending to this reflection. Mid-way through the summer, I feel that I have made tangible gains while still failing to connect to the very youth I am trying to assist. I guess it is not so terrible. I am helping my organization. Yet aside from craving the personal touch that made my work in the U.S. so successful, I worry about my ability to make realistic recommendations to my organization. The internet, for example, is not a viable option for reaching out to youth. Most adults barely even make use of it. I can only hope that my oral histories will enable me to establish alliances with local youth activists. Furthermore, I understand that Gun Free has local youth assisting them and that I am supposed to bring an outsider’s perspective – that is why they agreed to bring me into the fold. Nonetheless, no one likes being an outsider, and I only hope the bubble bursts before the end of the summer.

(back to top)

Charlotte

Early Impressions of Charlotte
Jeffrey Faulring

Riding home from work on CATS (Charlotte’s public transportation), I opened up the book I am currently reading, A Little Matter of Genocide by Ward Churchill, as I always do on bus rides to and from work. Reading on the bus and at the main bus terminal helps pass the time – over an hour – that it takes to travel between my dorm at Queens University and H.E.L.P.’s brand new office near the intersection of The Plaza and Milton Road.

On one afternoon, the ninth of June, Emily, Vijay, and I were riding home from work. Emily also reads as does Vijay if he hasn’t fallen asleep for a brief nap. A boy who looked to be high school age sat down in the row in front of me with his friend. This guy was pretty obnoxious, making a lot of stupid jokes in an unnecessarily loud voice. At one point when new passengers were boarding the bus, he said stuff like “you all got on the wrong bus. You all got on the wrong bus. This place is a death trap. You all got on the wrong bus.” Clearly nonsensical, and I assumed he was one of the class clowns in school. Then at one point he said, “Look it. [Pause.] Osama bin Laden. Haha haha.” As I looked up from my reading and glanced around, it became perfectly clear that he could only be talking about one person –my fellow SOLster Vijay.

I looked at Vijay and noticed a slight smile on his face (which I later found out to be more of a half grimace-half smile because he didn’t know how to react to this blatantly racist comment), and he looked around the bus, back and forth in a disbelieving, near-infuriated manner.

I can’t even really begin to comprehend what it was like for him in that situation. I was sitting about ten feet from Vijay, and there were enough passengers, including the one who made the comment, to block my line of vision to Emily to see what her reaction was. I’m sure she was pissed.

But who is to blame for such ignorant, baseless comments? Our government acts in a manner that seems to presume the guilt of anyone of Middle Eastern descent. Of course, one may need a small geography refresher to know that India (where Vijay’s family comes from) is in South Asia and not the Middle East. And of course, Vijay looks nothing like bin Laden -- not even close.

The U.S.’s own history is one of unabashed racism against African-Americans, Native Americans, Latinos, and in general any other minority. But this kid who made the comment on the bus was African-American himself. Why would he make such hateful comments when African-Americans have borne their own fair share of hateful words? Perhaps he has no identity with his race and its history in this country.

I haven’t really talked with Vijay about what happened on the bus today, and I don’t really know for sure if Emily knows what happened. This incident reinforces in my mind how prevalent racism remains in American culture today (and how this is simply a continuation of our racist past), and how anyone, regardless of race, can be racist.

*****
At the end of most days, we plan out what we are going to do the following day, including details about where we might go to explore and how to become better acquainted with Charlotte. My supervisor Paulette would say, “So tomorrow, you come into the office, and then we’ll go downtown and walk around and I’ll show you the government buildings and library so you know where to go when you’re doing your research.” The next day, we stayed in the office.

Monday, we met a parent who is part of the recently formed group Parent Power, which H.E.L.P. is assisting with its organizational efforts. Joanette offered to take us by Garinger High School, which she had graduated from some time ago and only a short drive from the office. We were going to walk around and see the school and witness first hand the new demographics of the school’s student body. I think Joanette said when she went there, 20% of students were black, the rest white. Today, those numbers have completely flip-flopped.

Unfortunately, the students were taking exams by the time we arrived at 11:15, and we were not permitted anywhere near them while they took their tests. We decided we would come back the next day. Tuesday, we got to work and again stayed in the office all day.

*****
On Saturday, Emily Vijay, Paulette, her son Justin, and I all returned from the two-and-a-half-day Freedom Summer training workshop held at Wake Forest University. One of the most striking parts of the workshop involved the high school students from Winston-Salem that participated alongside the older, supposedly wiser college students and other adults. These youth demonstrated their intellectual abilities on so many levels during the various talks and especially during the role play scenario when they came up with ingenious ideas for solving the problem presented to us that none of the other groups came up with. Then, on Friday night, they put on a show made up of parts of two plays they had written themselves about their life experiences and the stories they wanted to tell. Almost everyone in the audience appeared moved by the incredible performance they had seen on that stage.

My supervisor at H.E.L.P. has talked about how youth are not taken seriously and how they are dismissed as too naïve or too young to know what they are talking about. Her indignation over this reality was made all the more clear to me by those kids’ talents and abilities that were demonstrated throughout the workshop training. It’s time I put more faith in youth and gave them more ways in which to demonstrate that they are smart, and especially with the youth at the workshop, to show that they too should be a vital part of making social change since they too are affected by policy and social change that older people enact. At the same time, I will have to guard against any pessimism I have for youth, especially after seeing the racism that one particular youth demonstrated on the CATS bus.

(back to top)

Substance-free zones
Emily Ladue

Rewind

IAF Leadership Training, Wake Forest University, June 2004:

Nick Smith, a North Carolina IAF organizer, just walked past Danielle and I. “Good morning.” He managed to get it out perfectly, making the two of us feel warmed and welcomed for that second, while he made sure our eyes met and then continued walking, notebook at his side, agenda in his head. He was walking quickly, determined, but always remembering the unstated yet overemphasized rule of the IAF: relationships are integral to organizing. People come first. I looked up and smiled, still adjusting my eyes, and my mind, for the coming day of 2.5-day retreat relationships, conversations, reflections, and awkward 45 minute break times with nothing to do here at Wake Forest.

Danielle gave a surprised and overly friendly “Hey Nick! Good morning!” I stared at her until I realized I was staring. She told me the night before that she wants everyone to have the privilege that she does, and sees no need to change herself or her ways, only hold out her hand for those in poverty. Her overflowing energy and delight that morning made me feel as if I was hung over and just looked into the sun.

He was walking quickly, notebook at side. He reminded me of how I run around Duke. Always going to a meeting, always going over my cell phone minutes, always going. To burn out. I tried not to dwell too much on myself at that moment. Mainly because I did not want to think that he is what I look like to people I have 2.5-day relationships with at Duke. I actually shuddered. At all of the people I have those relationships with.

From what I can gather, Nick wants to be a national organizer of the IAF, eventually. He and John, currently a national organizer, work together quite well. Not unlike most other activist circles that I have been a part of, they seem to compose, with a few other organizers, a radical good old boys club.

A week earlier, Kim and I were half joking, half venting about men who love to be feminist by self-definition, and patriarchal by practice. We saw it in action later that day, after I was nearly blinded by Danielle.

John was telling us of an IAF success story, which was due to workers’ demands and a people’s refusal of a new stadium. Kim and Nick worked together on the campaign, Kim working behind the scenes, Nick catching the spotlight.

“Nick, do you remember that?” John asked three or four times during the story.

“Of course, John.” Nick nodded, beaming. Of course he was beaming.

“Do you have anything else to add to the story?”

“No, I think you got it all in there.”

I turned and looked at Kim. She was checking something on her cell phone, not interested in the least in what was going on around her.

I was fuming. I wanted to stand up, tell everyone in the room why this whole organization was patriarchal, reformist, and counter-revolutionary. I wanted to tell everyone that I knew the problems with the organization. I obviously had all of the answers, and I wanted to let out my frustrations in the most counter-productive and least useful way possible.

Wonderful. I was sitting in my swivel chair – swiveling incessantly – becoming exactly what I was criticizing at that very moment. In my frustrations with the lack of self-critique, sustainment, and personal growth in the IAF, I was being entirely hypocritical, and felt completely powerless sitting there. Powerless. I should feel empowered, here, at this training. Yet raising my hand to point out the fact that this whole weekend, men have been blatantly playing tag team and slapping one another’s asses made me uncomfortable. It was out of line. Which generally, makes me want to voice my frustrations even more. But this was surely not a space of critique. My experiences, my self, my confidence, was not me.

So I did what I do second best: analyze. And swivel. The IAF. Radical democracy. Grassroots organizing. Grassroots. Grit. Dirt. Seeds. Growth. Sustainment. Again, frustration. If change is of utmost importance, if power is what they want to see dispersed to the people, is it not of incredible importance to change individuals, and not just policies? Kim is willing to set aside the fact that men are in the most positions of power and get the most acclaim in this organization, because she knows it does not matter to her work. She disseminates the information that will get things done. Change policies, change the tasks of institutions, empower the people. Except when male ministers involved in H.E.L.P. doubt her abilities, problems arise. Or an older white woman politely steps out of the young black students’ campaign, despite the broad-based unity that H.E.L.P. fosters. Or and older white woman politely steps into the young black students’ campaign and tries to dictate it. I was reminded of the day before:

A Republican, curly red-haired, flowing-sun-dress wearing, small-rectangular-reading-glasses bearing, white middle-aged woman with a conscience and a love for theater and children, was sitting behind me, in this same room. She was currently working with a black youth arts organization that performed -incredibly- about the racism, poverty, disrespect, and violence in their communities, writing and reciting from their own voices. John told us to break off into categorical groups, to act as a mock IAF organizing region. The groups were “white town,” “youth town,” and “colored town” (which lost its first name as “black town” after John looked at Vijay, Vijay looked at me, and we were, surprisingly, not surprised.).

“Any questions?” John asked. The ever so empowered woman raised her arm.

“What if you are white, but organize for blacks?”

John answered for us all: “You are white. You live in white town.”

“Any more questions?”

Excuse me, but when will we address what just happened?

Back to the swivel. Bob Jackson came in the room, the main national IAF organizer, speaking to our training group, earning great respect from the group, including me. However, interspersed in his words of motivation and experience were some other words, or lack thereof. Words supporting traditional husband-wife roles. Words that spoke of the powerful women in the IAF, yet were void of substance. Words that served no purpose but to encase themselves.

“The best organizers we have are our women. They get things done.” And yet every time he gave examples of the regional organizers, he mentioned the male organizers. No mention of Kim.

Recognition like this, empty recognition, is generally bullshit. Fake, no worth. As many IAF organizers in their books will write. Which is why it does not bother me that Kim ignores it. She calls them boys. What truly matters is that the constituency of the IAF, the people of the community, are getting things done and are doing it themselves. So why the need for Bob’s empty shout-outs during our leadership training? Why must John and ed, pat Nick 1 and 2 on the back every few days. Hours, minutes, seconds, it seemed.

Bob received content smiles from the group. I knew what all those women were thinking. Put your fist in the air and feel empowered because the old white man in the front of the room just patted you on the back. He knows that women are the best organizers. Well alright.

Stand the fuck up.

At that moment, I wanted to go home, to New York, hang out with my friends, organize with people my age, and argue as we do about political theory. I wanted to swipe my MetroCard into the depths of the subway and watch everyone and no one that makes New York my home. I needed the substance that was missing from Danielle’s joy, from ed’s words, from Nick’ “good morning,” from my own self-respect when all I could do was swivel. Anything I could feel like jumping into without it cracking like a Magic Shell. Full-bodied and potent, layered. Like a satisfying glass of wine, only growing, self-analyzing, not stuck in a glass. Flowing.

I needed to get out of that room. Lucky for me, ed spoke briefly. Which meant that it was time for that awkward break before dinner. More relationship building. For a good morning smile. I walked out of the room, freezing from the air conditioner, with the word “fake” breathing from my lips. I would write this down and have a better grasp on it later.

Fast forward
June 27th, 2004.

I was reminded of that weekend, after spending this weekend at my wealthy aunt and uncle’s lake house. They allowed us to housesit, and we accepted with pleasure, after living in dorm rooms for a month. The house is beautiful of course, with cathedral ceilings, an oversized guest suite, and the lake in the backyard. It felt so comforting to be in a home, outside of the white dorm walls and factory lacquered rocking desk chairs.

There is more substance in a house. Some houses.

Sitting around the dinner table after spending the day reading, writing, sleeping, swimming, jet skiing, and cooking, we toasted our wine. Freeze frame.

I was happy, until I looked at us.

The dog beside the table, the cat underneath Vijay’s feet, the wooden heart-shaped American flag plaque above us, the fake flowers next to me, the hummus and olives on the Lazy Susan on the table.

The water in my ears.

Behind us, the lake – man-made, with a nuclear power plant on the other end heating the water to a comforting, almost sickeningly, eighty degree temperature. In the entertainment center in the living room, the DVD cases were empty. Last night, we opened box after box, mesmerized at their collection. Of empty boxes. Plus a few VHS tapes, including Roger and Me. But there was not VCR, only a DVD player. The George-Laura photo in the bedroom, the fake rock that says “P-E-A-C-E” in the bathroom, the cedar-scented candles in the fireplace. The books on how to downsize your business, beside The Alchemist, beside book 437 of Oprah’s Book Club. The American flags, the American flags, the American flags. The seven clay little boys standing in a circle hugging on the fireplace, enclosing yet another scented candle. The football, basketball, and Eagle Scout pictures of my cousins. The swarm of pictures of my cousin’s ex-girlfriend, my aunt not wanting to let go of her ever-desired daughter, who could only last a year.

Hidden, hidden, dusty, drawers with photos of my uncle at Woodstock, with a long beard and unkempt hair, living in the woods, holding two of his fingers emphatically in the air.

The lack of recent pictures of my cousin, who looks similar.

The lampshades that look like the night sky when they are on. Like the sky that we watched as we floated in the man-made lake. Soothing. Appeasing.

Tomorrow morning, back to work. Grassroots. I need some dirt.

(back to top)

Colored Town
Vijay Varma

“For our first role play covering what we’ve learned so far, including power analysis, planning, agitation and negotiation, we are going to split into three towns: Black Town, White Town and Youth Town.” Gerald Taylor, one of the national organizers for the Industrial Areas Foundation (IAF), scanned the audience of fifty community activists including college students, interns, seminary students and high school students. When his eyes met mine, I threw up my hands and looked around dumbfounded. As my gaze met some of the interns, I started laughing. Gerald, addressing the audience again, said, “Ok, colored town instead.”

Was this how it was going to be this summer? As I joined the black people in the audience one man, a seminary student from Charlotte, said slightly jokingly, however truthfully, “I won’t be called colored. I’m human not colored.” Thinking back on that statement that night lying in bed, I realized his statement had done two things. At once, the man had represented himself as a humanist while voicing his distaste for a term used by white racists towards black people. What was critical to me as an Indian American, however, was the lack of a term allowing me a seat as a viable member of the black community (minority was way too general. East Asians are minorities and never considered members of a “colored” community).

After the Friday session ended, two of the white Duke Divinity students, a few other white interns and two black female interns from Wake Forest decided to go out to a bar. I agreed, and while they were getting ready, I walked into the lobby of Babcock residence hall. Five of the elderly seminary students were in a circle laughing. I crossed into the circle from the right and picked a chair out of the circle in the corner. In order to see me, one needed to be extremely deliberate; however, my presence was noticed. Soon one of the white divinity students and another young white intern from Duke entered the circle and sat at 1 o’clock and 3 o’clock. The man with the goatee who spoke on being colored during the session started telling a story.

“When I was a young child growing up in the mountains, we never knew about race. Almost everyone was poor around me, and everyone treated each other equally: the blacks, whites, Mexicans and Indians,” he said, referring to American Indians. “Once during Christmas Mr. Jones, one of our white neighbors, bought twelve presents for all of us because we couldn’t afford any. They were richer than us because they had a double outhouse in the back. But when I moved out of the mountains into Durham, then you people showed me I was different.” With a kindly look in his eyes he gestured to one o’clock and three o’clock. After he said this one of the grandmas, closest to me, started laughing and turned around to me laughing while I joined in. He continued, “You all,” gesturing again, “forced us to sit in the upper balcony during the theatre. And then while the movie was going on everything would be fine until someone would yell ‘Quiet down up there you noisy nig--rs.’ And then we would start spitting at them and throwing water and even cups of pee.” At this the grandma turned to me again and we started laughing together. “Finally in the end it was getting too troublesome and the owners took down the upper balcony and let everyone sit wherever they wanted to. From then on there were no problems.” Just then the man’s cell phone went off as he began to tell another story. Strangely, he looked at the name of the caller while starting his new story and the set down the phone without turning it off. Therefore, every couple minutes, the same person would call and a digitized Dizzy Gillespie tune would accompany his story.

“When we were younger, all the white folk had skates with the rubber wheels. You could hear them coming down the street going woooooooozsh, woooooooozsh.” He gestured with his hands, moving his palms parallel to the floor, one after the other, emulating roller skates. “But we black kids couldn’t afford them skates, so we had to use our minds. We were real intelligent back then, always coming up with new toys. We attached aluminum wheels to pieces of plywood. You could always tell it was us coming down the street because it made a crrrrrereek noise instead of a woooooooozsh. And the aluminum would always make sparks on the road, so fire always followed us wherever we went. Those were the days.” Again the grandma looked back and we laughed together.

The man with the goatee continued to tell stories to the tune of Gillespie as I settled further in my seat and flipped to the earmarked page in the book I had just started, and read the quote. “The claim to a higher spirituality (and civilization) allows desis to be positioned in such a way that they are seen as superior to blacks, a social location not unattractive to a migrant in search of some accommodation in racist polity.” In the book, The Karma of Brown Folk, Vijay Prashad attempts to document how Indians are the marginal minority used tacitly, without their approval, as a tool against black Americans. At Duke itself, we see Indian students quickly willing to ally with white Americans; however, when was the last time you saw an Indian kid walking with a black kid?

So when that grandma looked behind me was she seeing me, a colored kid, young enough to be her grandson? Or was it an Indian kid, sitting on the side, taking notes to later hand over to a racist white majority?

(back to top)

Chicago

On Deaf Ears
Chris Carlberg

About twice a week there is a programmed “group” for the clients at 6:00 pm. “Group” is what we call any activity or lesson that is led by a staff person or outside volunteer. I lead the daily group lesson every weekday at 4:00 pm. The later groups are sporadic and, for some reason, I had assumed they were just meant as a housekeeping update, where the staff goes over any problems that are going on at the dorm or at the center. One exception is the group led by two graduate students from the University of Illinois-Chicago, where they talk about relationships and interpersonal skills. (I am never invited to this group, because I am considered staff and the volunteers want the clients to be able to speak freely.) Last Monday I didn’t really have much to do for the second half of the evening, so I decided that I would sit in on James’ group.

James is a thin African American man, probably in his late forties. He looks older and has more wrinkles than most people his actual age. It could also be the old-fashioned hat he wears that looks almost like a beret, a hat that compliments his brown leather jacket. He has a solemn personality, but is very kind. He jokes around with the clients, but also makes it known that he won’t put up with their tricks.

I don’t know James nearly as well as I know the other staff and administrators at the center. He was on vacation during my first couple weeks at the center, and he works from about 5:00 to midnight, so I don’t see him all that often. During those hours, the clients don’t have many responsibilities or appointments, so he really just keeps an eye on them. I thought he served as a sort of night guard or a babysitter, because he didn’t seem trained in therapy or social work like all of the other staff. I went into his group expecting to hear talk about what chores around the center needed to be done, who was getting into too many arguments with whom, or maybe a new rule about when the TV in the lounge was allowed to be on.

We all assembled in the small conference room, where group always takes place. James had a full house; all twelve of the clients were there, which can make for the daunting task of keeping them involved and behaved. I always fear groups this big because of all the possible distractions, such as clients breaking into side conversations, Josh becoming disruptive, or Ramon making his signature farting noises while others speak. I guessed that James could hold his ground against most of these disruptions.

He started by reading some poems from a small book. The poems were hard to understand and fairly sexually graphic. They were full of long and obscure words, words that were trying too hard to be impressive, in my opinion. James even had to ask me to come over and pronounce some of the words. He read about three poems and then paused.

“So, does anyone want to start the discussion about what those poems meant to them?” he asked the group.

I, like the rest of the group, looked away, because I didn’t even catch the slightest drift of what the poems were trying to say, especially without being able to look at them on paper.

“That meant nothing to anyone?” he asked again.

Ramon spoke up in his Honduran accent, “That dude crazy man.”

“I would appreciate it if you have anything like that to say about my step-son, you please speak to me in private.” James shot back.

“That your son? Sorry, James.” Ramon said in voice that showed he was suddenly uncomfortable.

It turns out that the little book of poems was recently published by James’ stepson, of whom James is very proud. I would agree that for a kid of 19 years old, the poetry was very gifted, even if it was a little verbose. James explained to the clients that his stepson had been in some trouble, but he was beginning to get his life on track. James was trying to let the clients know that for some people temptation to give in to impulse will continually get them in trouble, or the failure to trust people will keep them down. He was using the poems to suggest a new way for the clients to help themselves get on track.

“I know what it is like to be in many of your positions. You know where I’m coming from. Your gonna need some way of expressing yourself, letting all the emotion out, if you are going to be able to control yourself. Some people choose to write poetry, some paint, Hell, I don’t understand the garbage you listen too, but maybe you can use your rap to discover who you are. You are going to need something.”

James was speaking from the heart and from experience. He knew where these kids were in life, and he knew that it was not an easy hill that he had had to climb up to get his own life on track.

“Dude, I have heard this shit before, this is bullshit. I don’t need any stupid poetry. Screw this.” Josh yelled out. He was usually disruptive but not always this mean. I think James had hit a nerve.

“Josh you will please leave this group.” James said calmly, and Josh promptly put on his headphones and picked up the CD player from the table, making as much ruckus as possible as he left the room. In times like these, Josh always seems like a second-grader -- a 20 year old, 250 pound second-grader.

Josh had just left prison after 13 months behind bars, and before that he had an unfortunate childhood through the foster care system, after being neglected by his abusive mother. Josh could learn a lot from James. I was amazed at how little attention the other clients seemed to be paying to James. They were all looking at the ceiling or playing with their jacket zippers. I, myself, was thoroughly impressed.

“God gave you two ears and one mouth for a reason. We all need to do a whole lot less talking and more listening. You can learn a lot from people who have been through what you are going through if only you listen to what they have to tell you. I wish I had earlier.” James was getting to his main point.

This group was nothing like I had expected. He was speaking passionately and deeply, almost preaching. He was trying to give the clients hope for a future where they had a safe place to call home and were free from the temptations that seduce them and get them into trouble. Not all of the clients in the group had become homeless because of their actions, many came from terrible family situations, and even the ones who got in trouble can hardly be blamed, due to the situations into which they were born and raised.

However, James’ message spoke to all of them. He imparted hope and power. He urged them to listen to people who were trying to help them, like much of the staff at the center. Above all, he urged them to start turning things around now, not tomorrow. They would need to find inspiration deep inside themselves to succeed, hell; they needed to find inspiration just to survive. He was telling them everything he thought would have helped him when he was in their seats.

I was shocked, engrossed with all he said. I have heard many well educated and famous people speak in my short life, professors, authors, presidents, and even Maya Angelou in the Duke Chapel. However, I think I was more touched by this man’s words that I heard from my corner seat in the small conference room. At the end of the group, when all the clients went directly into the lounge to watch the violence of the fake wrestling show that was about to come on TV, I stayed behind to try and let James know what I felt.

“James, that was amazing. If the clients absorbed at least 10% of what you just said, they would have been given some advice that could truly change their lives. I was sitting there throughout your group, struck by the honesty and strength behind what you were saying.” I tried to convey my feelings to James, but I’m sure I didn’t accurately express how truly impressed I was with what he had just said to the young people.

After a chuckle and a little shy look away, James replied, “Thanks a lot for the kind support. I look at these kids and I try to say what I think would have set me straight. Ya know, I have none of those diplomas or training that David or Ben have, but I have the experience. I had problems with drugs, ran into trouble with the law, but I am proud of where I am now. I’m a religious man, and I know what I did as a kid, I feel that this is part of what I need to do to start repaying my massive debt to God. This is not just a job for me; in a way, I am still trying to repay my debt to society as well. I just wish these kids would open their ears a little more, the same way I wish I had decades ago.”

James’ group was not about housekeeping at the center. And he is far more than a night guard or babysitter.

(back to top)

A Cross Around My Neck
Hanna Kim

Yesterday, I went to church thinking, “Ah, finally, a place where I can be fed spiritually and meet like-minded people.” No doubt, experiencing new things and facing challenges is great, but being in an environment where I can express myself without feeling that I’m judged or watched, and with people that will understand me to some degree, was partly what I was looking forward to. I was tired -- not physically, but feeling drained/numbed in my soul. I felt myself changing, feeling worn inside and to some degree hardened.

I tried to go last week, but it was closed. I circled the building twice, checking every door I could find—securely locked. Shut off. Shut off from God? Surely not, but nevertheless shut. Closed for Father’s Day I later discovered.

So, I went again yesterday—an open door! I was really quite glad inside and I went into the service. A large room with circular tables—“oh, nice, small, intimate setting!” I thought, “more of a homey feel.” The singing was okay—didn’t seem like too many people were really singing though. The Power Point message/sermon was about understanding who God is from Genesis, but it was nothing I didn’t already know and no practical life application was offered. We were then dismissed. Before I knew it, everyone was gone -- no hellos or goodbyes, people at my table just vanished! I went into the bathroom a little disappointed and I overheard some “spiritual” women talk about what God was doing in their lives, how great God is.

I almost wanted to gag. But, at the same time, I’d known these kinds of people back at home -- people who claim to be moved by God but who don’t show any evidence of reaching out to others. Honestly, if I were a non-believer coming to church for the first time, I would be extremely put off. If this is what God and the people of God is about—humph! Who needs them? As I left, an elder church member said to me, “You’re coming back next week, aren’t you? We’re having a free Fourth of July concert and an ice cream social—it’s all FREE!” I didn’t come to church to get entertained with American patriotic music and free ice cream. What I needed was God. Somewhat sad, I walked home.

Throughout this internship, I’ve become increasingly conscientious about my faith, especially because of the cross necklace that I always wear. It means so much to nearly all people, positive and negative.

To some it means life, to others death.
To some it means hate, to some it means love.
To some it means living and dying with Jesus, to some it means hating people and a human instrument of power (which in many ways it has been).

While I won’t take it off because of what its true meaning is (love of Christ for people) and what it means to me, sometimes I want to hide it because of what it may mean for others and how they view me as a result.

I am extremely conscious of it at work and more so after the response I received from one of the workers here from my survey regarding sexual behavior and religious affiliation. I was already aware of the suspicion that came from most of my co-workers that I’m probably straight (they never asked) and that I am Christian. Regardless, they shouldn’t act false or cautious around me. I am human like them, too.

In fact, religion and God have come up numerous times in my internship and it’s interesting to observe people’s responses.

Once when I was working with the youth, they were chatting about typical teen stuff — water bras, manicures, sex -- when the topic of the movie The Passion of Christ came up. One transgender youth wanted to know if anyone had seen it and what they thought. Someone declared rather boldly, “You’re not supposed to talk about religious stuff, it’s just something you should avoid talking about!”

Another time while distributing condom kits on the street, my outreach partner explained that some people like to get the free kits, while some people cringe, and then there are the religious people that get in your face and tell you that you need to get saved. And last week at the youth gay pride picnic, the organizers were discussing a previous festival, where a church group had a booth right next to theirs (horrified face) and that they had a Bible quiz for fun.

Even at home with Chris and Suparna, and probably with you, my dear reader, there are judgments and assumptions that aren’t necessarily unfounded, but they aren’t necessarily applicable to all people uniformly.

(back to top)

Prisoner of the United States
Suparna Salil

Friday afternoon, 4:25 pm, I should have been packing up to go home but I still had seven pending cases when I should have had none. I was groaning at the thought of the extra two hours of work when she walked in. She was a Togolese refugee who had filed for travel documents with me just a week before. Her sister's wedding was in July in Finland, and she hadn't seen her family for ten years. Her mother was in Finland too, and was sick, not desperately so, but enough for her to worry. She wanted me to expedite the process.

"There is nothing I can do ma'am, you just have to wait. As I said last week, you will probably not be able to make the wedding because these documents take between 420 and 450 days to arrive. That's more than a year. The documents will definitely be approved and you can see your family next year, but until then you are going to have to stay within the United States."

Her face went taut and her eyes took on an angry sheen.

"I came to the U.S. to escape the prisons in my country," she said, "and now you are holding me prisoner here? What type of a country is this? I came here because I thought I would be free, and now I cannot go see my family?"

She went on in this vein for a while, and although I understood her pain, I did not fully comprehend her urgency. My dealings with dozens of clients in the past two weeks had left me rather inured to the individual stories. I almost had to build that defense: if I got caught up in every client's story it would drain me to the point of rendering me incapable of helping.

So I listened sympathetically, nodding occasionally to show that I was indeed paying attention even though my mind was on all the work I had to get done. Eventually, she came to the realization that I was really not going to do anything to help her, and left in disgust. I felt a momentary pang of guilt, but what was I to do? I had helped her to the best of my capacity and if that wasn't enough, that was just too bad. I had other clients' cases to work on.

I left work that day tired, a little guilty, and quite depressed. It seemed that no matter how much I did, I could not do enough. The more work I did, the more work there was to be done. I had told my supervisor when they were overloading me, but somehow an extra two hours a day seemed like a small sacrifice to help an overworked, understaffed organization. Yet, no matter how much I helped, there were always more to be helped, and those who had been helped always needed more. I felt like I was running an endless race pursued by the twin demons of guilt and social responsibility.

I called my father on Saturday night, just to talk, because he has a good perspective on most issues. I left a message, then tried several more times, with no success. Sunday morning, my mother was supposed to call at 7 a.m. (my mother and my sister are in India, and they had emailed saying they would be able to talk to me then), and 8:30 a.m. I still had not heard from them. I started to get a little worried. I then called my father again (he was still in Houston) and finally got him on the line. My grandfather had had a stroke and was in the hospital.

I wanted nothing more at that moment than to drop everything and be with my family. I had never felt more alone, isolated or trapped by responsibility. I paced about in the apartment and felt suffocated. Out in the streets, the tall buildings around me rose up like monstrous keepers to a gate I could not open. I ran to the lake, hoping that that vast expanse would offer me some solace, but the waves lapping at the shore just mocked the feet that stopped short of them and couldn’t go on.

When the panic subsided, I realized that if it really came down to it, I could go visit my family. The option was not completely shut off from me. I was not barred by legality; my job and livelihood did not depend on my staying within the United States, or in Chicago. Only then did I understand the trapped look in my client’s eyes, and only then did I understand that the borders of the Untied States barred so much more than they seemed to.

Maybe I will not truly understand every client's pain when they come in. But on a late afternoon when all I want to do is go home and not really help anyone, and someone needing help walks in, this memory will remind me that even though their story is tragically common, their pain is always unique.

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Pittsburgh

Three breaths and a box full of wound supplies
Alexandra de Sousa Miragaia de Oliveira

When you first enter the apartment the stench is almost unbearable. It is a smell that hits the cells of your nose with such strength you feel like sitting down and putting your head between your legs. It is hard to decide whether you want to breathe through your nose and potentially regurgitate last night’s meal or breathe through your mouth and actually taste the stench. You settle for breathing as little as possible. Hey, if Japanese pearl divers can go seven minutes without breathing you can live through the agony of visiting Bea and her husband for thirty minutes. What is that? Three breaths?

They are both sitting just where you left them last week. You wonder for a moment if they even left at all. Their clothes are the same. You look around the house for a moment to find even more junk than there was before. Every time you come in, there seems to be another cheap teddy bear or plastic doll or TV-advertised product. Bea always complains that she hasn’t cleaned the house. She never does.

She weighs about 350 pounds, which seem to weigh heavily on the motorized chair she uses. When she goes somewhere the chair creaks in protest, almost begging her to stay still. You internally wish she would stay still as well because the movement is creating a wave in the air making it even more unbreathable.

So you go through the routine of hearing the same things you have heard every week. You get one basin to soak her feet and wash her legs. Here comes the hard part. To put on the gloves because you don’t want to touch her legs or to do without the gloves as to not appear disgusted and add to what already must be a painful condition. You look longingly at the gloves and use your bare hands to place her right foot in the basin.

The idea that you call that organic mass a foot would be almost laughable if it weren’t sad. It is about three times the size of a normal large foot. It has swollen to a point that it looks like a tightly stuffed sausage ready to burst. She is missing a toe, and her nails are black with fungus. On the bottom of the foot there is a hole that is so deep you can see the muscle underneath. Her legs are fleshy and broken. It seems as if someone had scalded them and, not content the first time, proceeded to do it twice more. Amazingly, they look a lot better than a week ago.

Her husband uses a flashlight to help you see. Everything he owns is no more than an arm’s length away. You figure they really didn’t move from last time. Bea’s voice mingles with that of her husband’s and the TV. You are trying to concentrate on too many things to concentrate on anything. After the leg is cleaned, you coat it with prescription lotions and dress it with expensive materials that will soak all the moisture that continuously leaks from her wounds.

So maybe you have taken more than your share of the three breaths by now and are slightly annoyed that there is still an entire leg left. Once everything is cleaned and dressed, you clean your hands furiously. Funny thing, once you actually touch the leg it is not that gross. You are only disgusted at the thought of having carried along with you anything of that sickly body under your fingernails or the nooks and crannies of your digits.

When you offer prayer, the words of the nurse are almost inaudible because you are paying attention to Bea’s impressive beard that covers one of her two chins. Later, on the ride home you’ll wonder why instead of praying for her you just stared at the things that made you annoyed and disgusted. But right now you are just wondering if her husband will be able to get up from the chair and go to his appointment. With monumental effort he simultaneously stands up and passes gas loudly. No one says anything. He walks slowly to the door towards the man that will take him and you glance at the wet spot on his shorts silently thankful that he is not riding in your car.

Before leaving you remind Bea that her leg will never heal unless she puts it up. “The blood needs to get out of your foot if those wounds are to heal,” you explain.

“But it hurts so much, I can’t do it.”

“But it will feel a lot better when you get that pressure off your foot, I promise.”

You mistakenly ask why she didn’t put her foot up yesterday. “It looks really swollen, Bea.”

“Well, I would have put my foot up but I had to go shopping.” You are to some extent irritated because you can’t imagine what on earth could be so important to purchase that she would set back her recovery. Furthermore, what is it that she needs that is not already in that cramped apartment? You have the slight impression she bought another cheap doll. Then you retract that thought from your head, because it is none of your business and you shouldn’t judge.

You’ll come back next week and she won’t have put her foot up. It will look just as revolting as it does now. She will be standing in the exact same chair watching the exact same crappy TV shows. The stench will still be there and you will envy Japanese pearl divers once again. And you will at the end tell her to please put her foot up, just as you have many times before. Maybe someday she will listen. The nurse doubts it.

However, what you are truly thinking is that the health care center should just stop coming to see her. She refuses to do the things that she should to get better. She complains about medication, doesn’t do the exercises, routinely leaves the house for things that are unnecessary, and cannot get herself to put her feet up for an hour a day at the very least (her legs would require 23 hours a day, but that really ain’t happening). When somebody that has HIV, for example, does not comply with their regimen, the health providers can decide to not give them the drugs and give them to somebody else, restarting the regimen only when patients are ready to adhere. Health care is too expensive to give it to everyone, and health services are a commodity that shouldn’t be wasted but used where they can cause the most impact.

Why does Bea deserve to have a nurse come to her house every day to change the dressing of her leg when she won’t do the simple things that will benefit her condition more than drugs or dressings? She owns a box of medical supplies that sits on her coffee table and could make some health care centers envious: scissors, gauze, burn ointment, healing pads, pain medicine, wound medicine, drying pads…don’t other people deserve a shot at those resources as well? Why can she monopolize nurses and resources when she doesn’t have the determination to get better right now?

At the same time, health care should not be handed out arbitrarily. “You deserve it and you don’t.” How can society have a merit-based system for human rights like health care? It is more worthy to keep some people alive than others? According to whom? If a man walks into an emergency room drunk and drugged up he is still seen before the sick child that arrived a minute later.

And you say to yourself that is how it should be. No one life is more valuable than another. It is not the job of the government or yours to place values on peoples’ lives or to judge how people live their lives. So you’ll go back to Bea’s next week to change her dirty dressing. And you will tell her once again to put her feet up. And you’ll pretend that you don’t want to be giving your services to somebody else.

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Chardai
Danae Plattenburg

She was a whirlwind of girlhood. Chardai had already made a name for herself at The Neighborhood Academy, but she hadn’t attended the school one day. You could see her attitude before you saw her, a twelve-year old waif. Her cornrows were always neat but gathered into a wild ponytail atop her head.

I first met Chardai during our end of the year trip to Kennywood, the local amusement park. The teachers warned me that she “had a mouth,” and they were right on target.

“Who are you?” she asked. She had no reservations about approaching someone she had never seen before. In her head, she wasn’t just a future student at the Neighborhood academy; she was a future owner of the Neighborhood academy.

“I’m Danae Plattenburg, and I’ll be working with the Neighborhood Academy over the summer.” I extended my hand and she shook it. Most of the other kids responded respectfully when they were prompted, and Chardai was no different.

“I’m Chardai.” She announced with a roll in her neck. “My sister Charisse already goes to the Neighborhood Academy, and I’m going to go here next year.” I’m sure if the teachers had heard her speech, their sighs would have drowned out any background noise.

At Kennywood that day, I saw Chardai in action. She ran right along with her sister and didn’t miss a beat. Her attitude and mouth made me shake my head internally at each comment she made.

I saw Chardai again at the Neighborhood Academy’s orientation. After a tour of Duquesne University, where the students’ classes were to be held, a bus transported the kids to the home of the Roberts’. This elderly white family lived in Fox Chapel, a wealthy suburb on Pittsburgh’s outskirts. They were thinking about donating money to the school, and wanted to get acquainted with its students by hosting a Saturday lunch.

I remember thinking as we drove the narrow, tree lined driveway that I wished the Roberts’ had catered a lunch at a dining hall in the city. Sure, it was great to have the kids see a family in a beautiful home, but without knowledge of how they family came to be so wealthy, they were missing an important lesson. I prayed silently that the Roberts’ were black. My prayers went unanswered.

After a lunch menu designed by the kids (ribs, fried chicken, and blue Kool-aid), the Roberts’ opened their backyard pool for fun. I sat next to Chardai, her tiny body bundled in a towel. I could see that she had her swimsuit on underneath the towel.

“Why haven’t you gotten in, Chardai?”

“That water is cold. I’m not getting in there unless somebody go with me.”

“Hey Chardai, I haven’t gotten in yet,” one of the other kids chimed in.

“Okay, let’s get in then.”

The two girls got up and headed toward the pool. The sun disappeared behind the clouds; it had been playing peek-a-boo all day. I headed over to talk to Ms. Jodie, the Head of School.

“Ian,” she yelled, “why haven’t you gotten in the water yet?” The chubby brown skinned boy sat on the edge of a chair in his swim trucks and t-shirt, staring longingly at the water.

“I don’t want to take my t-shirt off, Ms. Jodie.”

“It’s okay. Leave it on and we’ll put it in the dryer when its time to go.” A burden was lifted off Ian’s shoulder and he dived into the pool.

“It’s so happy to see her smiling.” Ms. Jodie gestured at Chardai. “She’s coming to the school next year, and we better be ready. That girl has been through some things.” I looked at Ms. Jodie questioningly. “Their mom, Cherelle and Charisse’s mom, is still on drugs, and Cherelle was raped by her brother.” Inside, my mouth dropped, but outwardly I kept a straight face. “I remember seeing her when Charisse first came to The Neighborhood Academy, and she was so bright and happy. I’ve seen her over the last few years though. Her lip just sticks out and she walks around like this.” Ms. Jodie, a petite red-headed woman, stuck out her lower lip and let go of her usual erect, ladylike posture. “It’s so wonderful to see her smile.”

I looked up at Cherelle. Still tightly wrapped up in her towel, she was only in the water up to her kneecaps. She laughed at a joked, and dodged a splash from the kids in the pool.

The teachers at The Neighborhood Academy were prepared for a little girl with a big mouth, but were they prepared for a little girl with a lot of pain?

* * *
Alex and I sat across from each other at the dinner table. “When people talk about difficult families, I always listen because I never know what that feels like. My family was so supportive.”

“Well, try me. Anything you can possibly think of, I’ve had it. Just try me.” I laughed a nervous laugh; it wasn’t a cry for sympathy.

“You always hint at that, Danae, but you never tell me what exactly has happened to you.” If Alex knew all the things that had happened to me, I was sure she wouldn’t believe them, but something made me talk, I’m not sure exactly what. I gave her the short list of all the tragedy in my life.

“Whoa, Danae. I’d never imagined you’d been though all that stuff.”

“If I carried it all around with me, I think I’d be a really sad person.”

* * *
“I had a student like that in my class, Ms. Jodie. I had two kids in my class who were HIV positive.” Brent, a teacher from the Baltimore Public School, had come home to teach at the Neighborhood academy for the summer.

“How old were they?” she asked

“Six.” He paused. “And I found myself treating them differently. Even when I wouldn’t give the other kids recess, I’d let them play. I kept thinking that they should enjoy their time here.”

“You can’t do that Brent. You have to let them know that we all have a past. It’s their present that matters to you. They need to enjoy their time, but its tough love they need the most. We all have a story.”

I was angry with Ms. Jodie for the first time ever. She had always been so caring with the kids and you could see that they loved her, but in that moment I wasn’t so sure about her. How could this Vera Bradley toting, expensive sunglass wearing, charity giving woman tell me that “Everyone has a story”? What right did she have to say that a person’s past didn’t matter? It was her past that made her present different from those of the kids at that she served. When I refocused on the conversation, the subject had changed.

I thought about Chardai as we headed back to the city. How could she be so happy and so carefree in that moment when she had been through more than I imagined? I thought back to my conversation with Alex. There was no way anyone could carry the burdens of their past, and their family’s pasts on their backs without suffering everyday. There has to be something special given to a person who has so much stripped away.

Chardai has that and so do I. We aren’t that different.

I hope the teachers are tough on Chardai in the fall. She doesn’t need my sympathy or my sadness. A handshake and a smile will do.

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