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An Unlikely Miracle

The longer I’ve been here, the more I’ve recognized the importance of coming to D.C. with an open mind. While in a program like Washington Journalism Center, going to different parts of town is inevitable. Saturday I experienced two very opposite parts of town in a matter of hours, and I learned things in places I didn't necessarily expect to.

Bus Day.

Around 10 a.m., a group of six of us from WJC and ASP left the Dellenback for Anacostia—one of the most impoverished areas of the city.  The intersection where we got off the bus was a bit desolate on the cloudy, chilly morning. Our first stop was a Bethel Christian Fellowship, a small church near our bus stop. The door was unlocked, so we walked inside. There was a group of African-American children near the stage, and scattered adults in the chairs. Everyone turned to look at us.

Alberta Jones

Alberta Jones has been a miracle since the day she was born. Being born premature with an "enlarged and leaky" heart in the 1920s was the first of many hurdles. Every birthday was a victory - two, seven, 16, 30. Doctors told her throughout her life she wouldn't live to see another year. 

Now, at 85 years old, Alberta Jones looks back at her life with a great sense of accomplishment. 

Alberta was raised by her stern grandparents who didn't allow her to get out much. Throughout elementary school, the other children made fun of her for never having left the D.C. area. Upon returning to school from Christmas break one year, Alberta got fed up. "I went to India, Italy and Peru over Christmas!" she exclaimed.

The kids didn't believe her. 

"I went to the library," Alberta said in an attempt to prove to her peers that she had experienced other parts of the world.  

She was an only child with few friends, but Alberta's life never lacked adventure. She had a strong desire to get out and see the world. Unfortunately, Alberta's grandparents rarely let her go beyond the library down the street. 

"My library card became my best friend when I was very young," said Alberta. "It's been my life-long passport."  

With her health issues, Alberta never felt the need to take school seriously. After all, she was never supposed to see the next year. However, that did not change her love of learning about different places or inhibit the development of a vivid imagination.

How should I respond to the poor?

I was told that as students here at the Washington Journalism Center we were going to talk about this as a group at some point, but I figured I might as well get the thoughts rolling right now.

If you spend any time at all walking the streets of DC, chances are that someone has asked you for money. Maybe it’s the skinny old man in front of 7 Eleven, the old woman at Union Station who needs money for a bus fare, or the guy on the corner of 12th and F St. with nothing but a sleeping bag and a cardboard sign. In any case, it happens quite often.

I don't think there's one absolutely right blanket answer that we can give and be done with it. Poverty is much more complex than that. I mean, there’s a whole publication (Street Sense) devoted to poverty and homeless issues just in DC, not to mention the countless worldwide mission agencies, rescue missions, relief efforts, books, and a lot of Bible passages.

Perhaps I’ll get to a systematic approach to poverty later. For now, consider two recent situations I encountered.

Last week, I was walking to the gym after a long day at my internship. A heavyset black man with shoulder length dreadlocks, no older than his thirties, was standing on the street corner next to the gym asked me if I could spare some change. Sick with a cold and not in the best of moods, I brushed him off and went in to work out. When I came out he was still there, and he called out to me again. A flare of compassion, or perhaps pity, at his persistency stopped me from brushing him off again. As I started to reach for my wallet, I asked him what he was going to use the money for.

“Um, to get some beer,” he said sheepishly.

His response startled me. I appreciated his honesty and even felt some pity at the sight of his pleading face, but it didn’t help his case.

“I’m sorry,” I said, “but I don’t think that’s something I want to help you with.”

I started to turn away, but in a last ditch attempt, he pointed to my water bottle.

“Is that wine?”

“No it’s cranberry juice,” I said.

And that was the end of it—an easy decision on my part. I quietly congratulated myself on the discernment and wisdom I had shown in giving to—or rather, not giving and therefore not hurting—the poor.

Public transportation gets stranger

It was a gorgeous Saturday, the kind that just makes you want to be out and about. My roommate and I were volunteering at Taste of Georgetown, a gathering of 30  restaurants from Georgetown to raise money for the Georgetown Ministry Center. It was the perfect day to be outside chilling with good people and helping out a good cause.

We left with plenty of time to get to Georgetown, but we experience unexpected difficulties. At one of the first stops along the Circulator route, a bus to Georgetown, the doors would not close. It was bizarre to say the least. The would get to a certain point and then open all the way again instead of closing.

Suddenly the rumble of the engine stopped. The bus went silent. Everyone was looking around and looking to the front of the bus to the driver. He tried starting it a few times, but it wouldn't go. I sat there remembering why I ride my bike to my internship in Georgetown.

Finally the bus started again. I looked down at my watch. We should make it about right on time I thought. But then the driver had to stop the bus at every stop to make the doors close. The stops took long enough as it was since there were so many people headed for Taste of Georgetown, but having to stop the bus was just like the cherry on top of a bad bus ride. Luckily we made it to Georgetown only a few minutes late, and the volunteer organizer had built in time for people to be late.

The ride back after the event was like pandemonium as well. It was like a giant rush of people all pushing their way on as if the driver would close the door and leave them. I was reminded why I love riding my bike to Georgetown, so many people all going to the same place makes public transportation crazy. Georgetown's just so popular.

Are We Missing the Point?

I finally understand why they call it service learning instead of just service.

Food and Friends is an organization in Washington, DC that feeds specialized, nutritious meals and groceries to people living with life-challenging illnesses such as HIV/AIDS, cancer and diabetes. The services are free of charge.

First thought? I have to be up with the roosters. Second thought? Wait, there’s a shuttle?

This place is impressive. Every aspect of this organization from the punctuality of the staff, to the accessibility of transportation, to everyday tasks works better than clockwork. 

At first the tasks appeared routine and gave me as much of a rush as any assembly line could. Then I looked up and began reading all of the thank you letters written and illustrated by children and the children of individuals who rely on the service Food and Friends provide.  Blown up pictures of chefs who dedicated their time to cooking massive amounts of specialized food, volunteers working hard day in and day out and people actually receiving the food, hung from the ceiling.

Goosebumps.

My initial feeling was ashamed. I was entirely too focused on getting the “experience” that I was missing the impact of what I was doing. Just because I’m not listening to the testimonials of the people we are affecting doesn’t mean they don’t exist. After all seeing isn’t always believing right?

The next place of service learning I found in the urban Southeast of DC at a place called Cornerstone School. This day I was prepared with a real understanding of true service and a mindset to make a difference no matter how mundane the tasks may be.

But things never go according to plan—a lesson I keep forgetting along with the lesson that things aren’t always what they seem. These clichés are sadly the best way to convey what I gathered from my time at Cornerstone.

Pumped and metro card in hand we boarded the bus. On our way off the bus an unfortunate misstep caused my shoe to ripe clean apart rendering it impossible to wear functionally.

A Coat of Few Colors

I like coats. Long ones, short ones, blends, cotton, trench, leather: I would spend more time wandering antique stores looking at relics from the '50s and '60s than ever in an Abercrombie & Fitch or even Target.

When I got off the DC Metro at Benning Road station, I wished I hated them. Several of my DC Programs colleagues and I, six this particular morning, were headed towards Cornerstone Christian, an pre-K through 8th school that was one of many service-learning locations. The intent, as stated multiple times by DC Programs Directors Terry Mattingly and Peter Baker, was to make us feel uncomfortable. I'd say it succeeded before we even got onto the escalator to the street.

My brand-new, reverseable coat, alternating tan and white, without a smudge of dirt on it, was functionally a label of Does Not Belong. It had been a present from my mother for Christmas, and an unexpected one at that. When I landed in DC, I was glad for any and all cold-weather clothing I could get.

This City is a Poem

A city is like a good poem.

The first time you read it, you like what you hear and you are intrigued by the words, but you really have no idea what they mean or what the author was trying to convey. The initial curiosity, however, draws you back to the pages, and you begin to reread each line and each stanza carefully. You unpack each metaphor and refer back to other great works of poetry to guide you on your way. You study the author’s background and his social context, and layer by layer the words are peeled back, revealing a meaning that was far richer than you had imagined in the initial reading.

Having been here for only two weeks, I am still working through my first reading of the city of Washington, DC. At first glance, I like what I see, hear, and especially taste, but I know that this city is so nuanced that it will take me a full semester and beyond to understand fully Washington, DC.

The Problem with Labels

"So, what would you do if someone asked you for money for food?," my mom asked me four weeks ago as we sat under a thatched-roofed veranda at the beach in Ghana. We were talking about the role the church and followers of Christ should play in dealing with hunger and poverty in that West African country.

"Well, I hope, I would give them food if I had any. And if I didn't, I'd take them out to get some, and sit and talk with them," I responded.

My mom rolled her eyes at me knowingly, as if somehow she knew that two and a half weeks later I would walk past a homeless man at a Metro station in D.C. and do nothing more than shake my head no.
 

What the Jockstraps?!

Photo courtesy of Cindy Ortiz: (from left) Cindy Ortiz, Emily Hollis, Seth Woods

After being handed surgical gloves and a face mask on top of the average cleaning accessories, my classmates and I were directed to the 5th floor in the National Capital YMCA to do some dirty work during our first day of volunteering between Washington Journalism Center classes in DC.

Little did we know how dirty. 

Attack of the Six-year Olds

Children are great - I love them!  For about five minutes.  Any longer than that and I'm searching the faces of passing adults for "mommy" or "daddy".  When I learned that part of my Service Learning Project, assigned to each student by the WJC instructors, would be working for SOME helping with after school activities for under-priviledged school children, I'll admit I felt uneasy from the start. 

The day started off easily enough -- I met the children as they showed up from their various school commutes and introduced myself.  Three girls made a mad dash for me and flung themselves around my waist each screaming out "I want to work with her!" 

"No, I do!"

"No, ME!"

I'll admit, sure, I was flattered.  It's not everyday you have people fighting to hang out with you.  And sure, they were six, but hey - I'll take what I can get.  For the first hour or so, we were supposed to help them finish up any homework they had.  By this time I had settled down next to Derricka - an adorable first grader who had just lost her two front teeth.  While I pulled her homework out of her High School Musical folder, feeling determined and authoritative, she proceeded to start yanking on my ponytail.

"Let me play with your hair!"  she screamed.  Which was extremely unnecessary due to the fact that I was sitting less than 2 inches away from her.  I told her not until she was done with her homework, figuring that she'd forget all about it by the time she was done.  For the next hour and a half I agonized over trying to get Derricka to write her alphabet.  She pouted, pretended to cry, stared at me and laughed, and did something that somewhat resembled foaming at the mouth all in an attempt to get out of her homework.  When she started jumping on tables and screaming, I ran for help. 

I had barely breathed a sigh of relief when two more little girls cornered me.  For the next hour I was forced to give piggy back rides, and one even tried to do a back flip off of my knees -- don't even ask me how that one happened, I'm still in awe.

So that concluded day one for me, and when I left, I was feeling a little discouraged.  Over the summer I had thought long and hard about switching my major to become a teacher - preferably kindergarten or first grade.  And after that day, those dreams were crushed.

The second day, I head back around the same time.  I help some of the other volunteers set up the room for the performer who is coming to do an act for the children.  The kids show up and I get tackled, of course.  The performer begins, entertaining them with basketball tricks intertwined with a message to stay in school and work hard to acheive their dreams.  Towards the end of the act, he lets everyone know that they're going to need some volunteers who can dance.  I immediately shrink to the back of the crowd.  Most of the kids are standing in the cirlce with him showing him their various ultra-cool dance moves.

Before I know it, I'm pulled up from my seat and told to do my favorite dance.  Wishing that some sort of hole would open up in the floor I just laugh and start to walk away.  The kids form a barricade and I'm left like a deer in the headlights.  I wowed them to silence with my version of "The Robot" and find time to sprint away when Javon, a fourth grader, starts doing some breakdancing on the floor.

So while this experience has probably pushed me from wanting kids at age 30 to wanting them maybe closer to 40, their huge smiles and their affectionate gestures (whether it be pulling my hair, pinching my arm, or piling onto my lap three at a time) truly touched me.  I know I can go home from this and can go on with my life, but those kids are there everyday--doing the same thing over and over again while their parents try to make it in the world.  I was blessed to be given the opportunity to work with them.  And, once again, until next time...