InkTank

New campaign for safety of pedestrians

After a long day at my internship, sometimes all I want is a little silence once I return home. But, my roommates and I often joke that an hour doesn’t pass without hearing ambulance sirens.

According to the lead in a Washington Post article, I'm lucky I made it home from work.

About three times everyday in the District, someone walking on a city street gets hit by a vehicle and an ambulance races to the scene. This year, four of those people have died.

It’s no wonder the first week in Washington D.C. students get warned not to listen to music or talk on the phone when out and about.

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.

While my cape is at the cleaners

I don't leap tall buildings in a single bound.  I don't have heat vision.  I'm not from Krypton.  I can't fly.  I'm not Clark Kent...or am I?

A couple days before I came to Washington I got new glasses.  My old prescription wasn't working well so I figured it would be good to get new ones before I came.  Little did I know that this would alter my DC experience.

The Washington Journalism Center program is notorious for developing nicknames for members of the group.  Greg Perreault has the final say on all names proposed for permanent use.

While taking my seat in class one day, my roommate Josh Brown of Union University looked at me and said,"Brosef, has anyone ever told you that you look just like Clark Kent?"

Stop and Smell the Lavender

 At the beginning of the semester during my walk to Union Station I noticed something delightful one day. When I happened to brush past a specific bush sticking out over the sidewalk, I caught the sharp but delicate scent of lavender blossoms. This sudden flowery scent amidst the typical city odors of bus fumes and cigarette smoke excited me rather like a little child who gets too excited over something simple. 

Despite the fact that I knew it was pretty silly to get so excited over the smell of a lavender bush, I would often accidentally brush against the bush on my rush to Union Station, catch the scent of the flowers, and smile. It seemed like a small piece of some other world that didn't really belong in the city, but thrived there nonetheless. I think that's kind of how I felt at the beginning of the semester: transplanted into a city that was new and strange, but still loving it and wanting to grow there. 

As the semester progressed, I guess I started to forget about the lavender bush while I got more used to the city and less inclined to take in the sights and smells that were so apparent to me in the beginning. I found myself more inclined to become part of the hussle and bustle in my rush to get from one place to another. I was constantly making the decision between becoming either overstressed or cynical about my daily situations.

Maybe you could say I was finally fitting into the pattern of a young, professional Washington D.C. person.

In the big White House beyond the iron gates

By Jenny Miner and Matt Boivin (WJC Spring '11)

It's obvious that the following blogpost was written by two people of the opposite gender, because one thought the headline should be something like “Beyond the Iron Gates” and the other thought a fitting title would be “Inside the Big White House.”

Anyway, the headlines may suggest different sentiments, but I think Matt Boivin and I had the same sense of awe when we both got to report on an event at the White House today. The following is an account of our experience. 

Jenny: It was approximately nine in the morningwhen I made my way toward the White House to attend a conference on Bullying Prevention on behalf of my publication. Though it was a rainy day and my umbrella was not doing much to keep me from getting wet, I was excited. I walked along Pennsylvania Ave. for a few minutes, trying to figure out where I was to enter, before finally asking a Secret Service agent. If you've never seen them before, they look quite intimidating and don't exactly look approachable.

I failed to mention that I was a part of the press, so the agent directed me to a security post directly opposite of where I needed to go. Luckily, I ran in to Matt, who figured out my error.

Familiar Faces

I rolled out of bed like a kid on Christmas morning, well it was almost 11, so a very tired kid on Christmas morning.  But it wasn't Christmas; it was spring break.  Spring break takes on a very different meaning at the Washington Journalism Center.  We have three Fridays, including Good Friday, class free that culminate as our spring break.  Now, not to be mistaken as a whiny college kid, I'm very grateful for these Fridays of freedom especially since the next two include travel.  However, I did find the long weekend a tease and now have urges to throw my phone when friends back home find it amusing to send pictures of warm sandy beaches, and the sickening countdowns to SB '11 have kept me off Facebook. But on a positive note, I had a great time as my family traveled up to the District.  

Navigated by its owner, the Wes-UV (my brother Wes' SUV) departed Raleigh, North Carolina and headed to Washington.  My parents had flown from Illinois to NC and joined my brother and sister in law in the venture to the Capital.  They arrived Friday (first break) afternoon and spent the weekend following their Washingtonian family member around the city. Wes and his wife Nikki had previously visited the city, but my parents were as lost as I was my first week.  

With no scheduled itinerary, we hit the streets as I pointed out where I work, shop, eat, and live.  (A basic summary of my life in the city)

Night of epic fail

DC is all about the cultural experiences. So, when my friend Josiah, from the American Studies Program, suggested we go to a classical concert at the art gallery I thought it would be fun. Of course, nothing went right.

We get to the bus stop 10 minutes before the bus comes, or so we thought. It was gray outside, and the clouds were threatening to pour. We waited awhile, and thought it must be running late. Josiah had remember that he had forgotten he had no money on his Metro card, and quickly ran back to get some change. Then we look on the bus stop post, Josiah had looked up the Saturday schedule. We had to wait another 20 minutes.

Eventually, the bus came we almost sit on the back and see some green stain on the seat. Thankfully, we didn’t sit there. We safely arrived at our location, and walked in the decent drizzle of rain to the gallery.

The doors were locked. A man along with a guard walk up to the glass door and says something.

“What? We cannot hear you.”

Homeless struggling with the change in season

The temperatures are dropping now as we draw closer to winter and many homeless are seeking shelter to escape the rough weather. Washington DC has not seen much cold weather yet but just a little bit more to the North in Ohio they are feeling the season change in a big way.

The Columbus Dispatch's article on how full the shelters are already getting in Ohio when it's only the beginning of November is an amazing article that does well giving background information and really giving a voice to the homeless and their struggles.

The lead in this article really draws the reader in with stating how all 514 beds were taken in a homeless shelter when it was only 39 degrees in Ohio. It gets a person thinking and evokes empathy for all those living on the streets in central Ohio.

"Cause when you're a celebrity..."

I can't believe the way some people stalk me to talk to me about my folding bike. This week I was on my way to my internship walking down M Street in Georgetown grooving to some tunes on my iPod when I feel a tap on my shoulder. I turn and look really hard at the woman looking intently at me, but I don't know her. I pulled my headphones out and she started asking a dozen questions about folding bikes. I listened and answered the questions as I locked Foldy up at Dean and Deluca where he waits for me while I do my journalism thing.

I thought that putting my keys in my backpack and starting to walk toward the Georgetowner, the paper where I intern, would signal to this lady that it was time for me to go and for her to stop asking questions about Foldy, but apparently she didn't understand the cue. Finally I told her I had to go to work and she said ok.

Later that day on the way back from my internship I was riding down the National Mall when I hear a guy behind me yelling "hey, hey, hey!" He starts running next to me and Foldy. I looked at him and he goes, "Is that one of those bikes that like gets smaller?" I told him it was a folding bike and he said, "Well would you stop and fold it so I can see it?" I was a little shocked. There I was riding down the Mall and some guy wants me to stop and fold my bike so he can see it. "Sorry I have somewhere I have to be," I told him. He thanked me and finally stopped running next to me.

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.