Catholic Worker in Training

An Afternoon at the Federal Courthouse

2010-03-17T17:34:00.000-07:00

Almost the instant my feet touched the Arizona soil, I heard about the state's issue of immigration. In Los Angeles, I knew undocumented immigrants, and the troubles I heard were often about finding work and a living space without being turned in to la migra. In Tucson, just a few hours from the Mexico-U.S. border, the struggles of the immigrants are ones of basic survival.

I have read about NAFTA/CAFTA, wars and poverty that have pushed Mexicans and Central Americans toward our borders, but not of the journey from their home to U.S. soil. From my friends involved in the struggle for immigrant rights, I have learned that many immigrants are guided by coyotes to whom the immigrants pay a hefty fine. The coyotes bring their paying customers across the border, but are not always to be trusted with having the well being of the payee foremost in their minds. For example, there are accounts of immigrants being led in circles so the coyote can establish his power and control. The environment also preys on those crossing. The cascading terrain of the Sonora Desert, which straddles the Mexico-Arizona border, flourishes with cacti, wildflowers and brush while it also provides a home to snakes, wild cats, deer, hawks, coyotes and more. In all, crossing the border is dangerous, tiresome and lengthy. The end of the journey comes with defeat for some, either in death or detainment by the Border Patrol.

Those who are detained at the Mexico-Arizona border are processed through Operation Streamline. This federal program has been active for a few years now in the border states. Federal funding, and the use of the United States federal court system, afford the prosecution of each alleged trespass from Mexico into the U.S. In Tucson, the proceedings take place Monday through Friday at 1:30pm. The trials are open to the public, thus young law students and human rights activists are often present to study or be a witness.

Felice kindly obliged me and brought me to the federal courthouse on March 8. We entered the courtroom on the second floor and I was suddenly overcome by the odor of Skid Row. It was a wall of smell that was all too familiar from my time serving and talking with men and women who had limited access to showers and a change of clothes. I looked to my left and there were rows of Hispanic men looking exhausted and unbathed.

Felice and I sat in the rows on the opposite end of the seating area, as directed by the bailiff. When we claimed our seats, we saw a short row of women with their backs against the partition which separated them from the courthouse pews. Some were wearing orange prison jumpsuits. There were yet another two rows of men sitting against the far wall in the far corner of the room. My heart broke thinking of the rain that had come down on the desert in the days before, the night's frigid temperatures and the tumult they all inevitably faced.

All of the detained were wearing earpieces so to hear the translator who sat to the right of the judge. Their arms were restrained by handcuffs looped around a chain belt, and their ankles were cuffed with a small chain allowing a minimal stride. The soft clinks of each prisoner's metal multiplied in the courtroom and built to a small thunder.

It was difficult to tell how many lawyers were present as they were pacing around the courtroom, talking with each other, shuffling papers. The judge entered and climbed some steps to his raised booth. Meanwhile, some defense attorneys rallied to their clients, encouraging them to stand and bringing them to the five standing microphones neatly lined in front of the judge. The first defense attorney to address the judge explained that his client did not understand Spanish and needed a translator for a native Mexican dialect. The judge asked why that was important. The defense attorney continued to say this was his client's second trespass and wanted to make it explicitly clear to him the consequences he faces would he trespassed a third time. The judge succumbed and marked a new date for his hearing.

After an additional pair of similar cases, the judge addressed the whole of the legal staff. Suddenly, approximately 15 lawyers stood, and in unison responded to the judge's routine and blanket questioning in preparation for trial. Then the judge shifted his weight so to see all of the defendants. Gazing downward from his platform seating, he addressed them en masse and detailed the consequences of pleading guilty and not guilty, the rights given to all defendants in the U.S. federal court, and made time for potential questions. Not one of the chained men and women spoke.

Five by five, the defendants were called by name to stand at the microphones in front of the judge. Their lawyers lined behind them. In some cases, the lawyers smiled at their client or patted the defendant on the back. The judge asked each of the detained immigrants the same questions: if the he/she is a citizen of Mexico, if he/she crossed the border at a place or time not permitted by the United States, and how the defendant pleads. Interspersed were available moments for the defendant to pose questions, or comment before sentencing. After their brief time standing before the judge, the men and women were sentenced and shuffled out to the holding cells.

The path out of the courtroom brought the immigrants walking toward the "audience" of the court. I saw each and every prosecuted face after sentencing. Some wore looks of relief, others sadness and still others held a blank stare. Once, a lawyer with his hand on the shoulder of a client tried to interject some quick words before he departed. The client furrowed his brow and simply said, "No mas, no mas," and shrugged off his legal representation. In my pitiful attempt to instill some dignity into their court experience, I tried to make eye contact with those who looked in my direction; and when I was successful, I offered a faint smile. But I had to accept my role as witness, and nothing more, as still five more immigrants approached the judge.

Each person who was sentenced that day had made a plea bargain, and many were sentenced to be imprisoned for 30 to 180 days depending on the charge. I found it terribly ironic that these men and women were being punished for crossing illegally into the United States, yet the federal government felt it just to keep them incarcerated in an already overcrowded prison system on the United States' dime for up to six months. I am more concerned about the waste of federal funds on imprisoning immigrants which demonstrates that, as a country, we are unwilling to spend money on an "illegal alien" unless it is to punish them.

About halfway through the series of quintets, the judge began to dole out a ruling of time served. As much as I could gather from the legal rhetoric of which I am not adept, the second half of defendants had crossed the border for the first time (or at least were in court for the first time), and their charges were lighter than those previous who had multiple trespasses on their records. Upon this ruling, the defendants were required to serve no more jail time. The first-timers would soon be deported to a Mexican border town, which is most likely nowhere near their home. Still, I silently cheered for this small victory. Finally, I thought, a silver lining in this procedure. Then the judge warned they could be held by the Border Patrol before deportation. He mentioned no specific amount of time--hours? days? weeks? And when would those awarded time served be handed over to the Border Patrol? My muted sense of glee was extinguished.

By the time the final five approached the microphones, the sounds of the rattling chains had dramatically diminished, and I could more clearly hear the judge's mumbled tones. These five had faced previous criminal charges in the United States unrelated to their immigration status. The prosecutor spoke up for the first time--besides the routine, "Yes, your honor," and "No, your honor"-- and advocated for an added 5 to 20 days to their sentences. One man had been convicted of assault in 2009. He had been charged and served for that crime; yet because he had re-entered the country and this was on his record, he was sentenced to an additional 10 days in prison. The woman standing next to him was sentenced to an additional 20 days for human trafficking. Her lawyer noted she was a single mother of a 2 year old, she hadn't actively participated in the illegal situation. She had not understood that the vehicle she was riding in held victims of human trafficking. As the judge sentenced her, he warned that if she decided to re-enter the United States illegally, she could be sentenced up to 20 years in prison for the felony. "Twenty days is a pretty good deal for you," he reassured.

The very last person to be processed that day received an added 10 days to his sentence for a misdemeanor offense in 2003. He was 18 at the time of the offense. I dropped my head into my hands, and silently recognized our shared age. And as he exited the courtroom, Operation Streamline completed for the day. I had watched 75 immigrants--74 Mexicans and one Honduran; 9 women and 64 men--be prosecuted under United States law; and after two hours of repetitive sentencing and legal jargon, I was free to go.

Many of us do not live a day's drive from the Mexico-U.S. border, and therefore our attention to immigrant rights is not as urgent as in Tucson, for example. And for some, this distance from the border affords us the comfort of assuming characteristics of immigrants such as parasitic, pathetic desperation, lazy, and unwilling to learn English. However, none of these perceptions take into account the humanity, suffering and basic needs of those who cross to the United States, nor do the stereotypes recognize the comparative wealth and privilege we have north of the border at the cost of those south of the border. These narrow views allow us to be complicit in the condemnation of our brothers and sisters and ignorant to their strife; they encourage the chasm already enforced by the Border Patrol and Homeland Security; and they provide little room in our hearts for the graces of hospitality and love.

Should we take the moment to open our minds and reshape our hearts to be aware of life outside our own experiences, we might better understand our global family. Change is within us.

A Winter Summary

2010-02-20T12:54:00.000-08:00

Travels since November have taken me through Washington, Oregon, California and landed me in Arizona (my first time in the southwest). I rode through northern California with the company of three young community-searching, simple-living explorers. All of us, strangers at the beginning of the trip (brought together by a Craigslist rideshare ad), hugged goodbye after the 8 hour drive.

In California, I was confronted with questions about my life plans and kindly offered a house in exchange for serving the poor (this is a very simplified version of the story). I declined for the time being.

A few mornings, at the crack of dawn, I accompanied a volunteer to the San Francisco food terminal to retrieve unwanted and/or unsell-able produce. We filled our large truck with six full pallets of food to be distributed to the hungry. Despite my not being a morning person, I was able to stay alert enough to speak Spanish with the laborers and avoid being run over by a forklift or two.

For a week, I spent time along the central Californian coast, breathing in fresh air and coming close to tears as the sun set. I even went to a barn dance.

The holidays beckoned me to Los Angeles where I was reunited with my LACW family and boyfriend, Sam. Originally planning to spend only two weeks in southern California, I spent two months. I figured this to be an improvement from the last time I expected to stay a limited time and ended up staying for two years.

A venture to another community quickly sent me back to Los Angeles. I am learning many lessons on hospitality, thankfulness and humility, and finding that the most effective (and the most undesirable) way to know how we should treat others is to experience mistreatment by others.

And now I am in Tucson, Arizona, with Jack and Felice Cohen-Joppa. They have graciously hosted me since the end of January. The pair publish the radical newspaper The Nuclear Resister, which chronicles acts of dissent by those who advocate an end to war and nuclear weapons. Also printed in the paper are the address of peace prisoners who are serving time in jail for their nonviolent civil disobedience. Subscribers are encouraged to write letters of support and hope to these men and women. Jack and Felice have been doing this work for 30 years.

In their three decades of witness and independent reporting, they have acquired stacks of archives. I am here as their intern, helping to dig through and organize their boxes of articles, photos and letters until April.

Tucson is a friendly city with erratic weather thus far--80 degrees one day, clouds and rain the next. The city is scattered with cacti and haloed by mountains. It is also bike-friendly, by which I mean it has bike routes and is substantially flat. Tucson hosts the University of Arizona, which means there are a lot of coffee shops and obscure stores. I am happy here.

For now, this is my life and I am grateful for all of (mis)adventures I have come across since June.

Lent is upon us now, and I am turning my thoughts inward, slowly sculpting my heart to be more open to God's eternal Love and Grace. If you also celebrate Lent, I hope yours to be fruitful.

A $1 House, Chickens, Ducks, and Morning Glory

2009-11-02T14:30:00.000-08:00

Admittedly, I know nothing about the Earth. Big "E" Earth and little "e" earth. I don't understand how we stay afloat in the universe instead of sinking into nothingness at an uncontrollable rate. And I certainly don't understand how we can bury a little nub of a plant in dirt and within days see proof of life emerging from the ground. While I will probably never understand the complexities of scientific law that propell us around the Sun, I can start to understand where I get my food. And that's where Kathleen Bellefeuille-Rice comes in.

I met Kathleen through Clare, her daughter and LACW community member. Kathleen is jolly, a hard worker by nature, and eternally passionate about gardening. She had extended a few invitations my way to visit her in Olympia, Washington, to learn about gardening and get my hands dirty. I decided to take her up on that offer.

Early October, I arrived in Olympia via public transportation. I paid a total of $6 to get from Portland to just blocks away from Kathleen's home. Granted, it took me 10 hours to complete the trip, I was stranded in Longview, Washington for 3 1/2 hours, and did hear the story about a mother being hit by a train (see previous entry). But the people are the glory of the adventure, aren't they?

Kathleen and her husband David live in a house that was physically moved from one lot to the current location. The house itself cost $1. It is now sitting on a nice plot on a hill in Olympia, surrounded by a garden that feeds Kathleen and David throughout the year. While they didn't live in a Catholic Worker house, they raised their two children in a similar lifestyle, valuing the traditions of simplicity and nonviolence. They do not own a car, relying on the public buses and their bicycles for local transportation. The food that doesn't come from their garden is purchased at the local food co-op, farmers market or straight from the farmer. David works as a water meter reader in order to provide an income and but not pay federal taxes (aka: war taxes). And Kathleen spends her days tending to the garden.

Although, "tending" might not be the accurate word, and the garden is not the sole venue of work. Kathleen labors year round to supply food her home. This includes the basics of planting, watering, weeding, pruning, and harvesting. There are also three chickens and three ducks that need food, water, and eggs to be collected. That is enough to keep anyone busy, but as I mentioned, Kathleen is a hard worker by nature. In the autumn, she spends much of her time around the stove, dehydrator and porch. The stove is the headquarters for canning. When I was with her, we made salsa out of tomatoes, parsley, onion, garlic and hot peppers. Kathleen also experiments with tinctures, homeopathic remedies and shampoos. (Science is a series of experiments, she says.) The dehydrator provides crisp slices of pears, handfuls of sweet kiwis and crunchy raspberries, flakes of nettle, leeks and onions for soups and rose petals for teas. The porch is the temporary resting area for the freshly harvested gourds, squashes, tomatoes, potatoes and other fall produce that aren't ready for in-house storage. Many of the vegetables later find homes in boxes under beds, under the house or in the attic.

This is just a quick overview of one season's worth of work. Did I mention that she often does it all by herself?

I don't want to project onto Kathleen, but I think she was happy to have another day laborer. David claimed since she knew I was coming, Kathleen started lining up more projects for me to do. We re-roofed her small greenhouse, cleared a few beds of produce, yanking morning glory out from the ground, and planted cover crops. Before some days began, I would join Kathleen for pre-dawn yoga. I was getting exhausted at 6:30 and going to bed at 8:30. I hadn't worked so hard in... well, a while. After working in her garden, a day at the Hippie Kitchen sounded like vacation. But it was wonderful work.

I had an established morning routine I looked forward to. First, I walked out to the Asian pear trees to coax the fruits off of the branches. The chickens followed and jabbed their beaks at the fallen orbs. Then to the raspberry bushes that were still producing juicy morsels. Spiders had found the thorny stalks and each day, I saw that one more had knitted herself a home between the aisles of bushes. My third stop were the kiwi trees. I reunited with the chickens who had declared a special roosting place near the fruits, and would chaperone my harvesting. They pecked at the ground for a second-hand feasts and clucked to each other incessantly. I would end the morning harvest when either the colander was full of the small, fleshy fruit, or when the chickens began to mistake my feet for grub.

Ripping fruit from its stem, however, was the extent of my garden knowledge. I spent a lot of time with a confused and/or apologetic look on my face, and Kathleen spent a lot of time telling me, "It's okay! You're new at this!" One evening, in preparation for dinner, I harvested an entire celery root instead of a few stalks as was asked of me. I mistook another plant for a rutabaga. Kathleen chimed in once more with reassurance as I hung my head in embarrassment.

When I wasn't making novice mistakes, Kathleen and I engaged in wonderful conversation. As we hauled clippings and weeds to the compost, harvested squash and loaded the dehydrator, we laughed and told each other stories. Kathleen openly shared anecdotes of her faith and snippets of motherly advice. We make breakfast, lunch and dinner together, and chatted about the place we found ourselves in our personal journeys. Our workspaces were warm with care and intention.

The entire two weeks were a blessing for me. Kathleen and David welcomed me into their home and into an intimate understanding of simplicity, peace and family. While I'm not sure I would be able to cultivate my own livelihood from the ground up just yet, I think I'd be willing to try in the future. So, thank you, Kathleen, for giving me an insight into the love that goes into the earth, and resurfaces to nourish us.

A Stranger's Prophecy

2009-10-22T10:18:00.000-07:00

(note: info on my two weeks in Olympia to come later; thought this story would be fun to share)

One of the great lessons I learned at the LACW was how to interact with crazy people. Even more than crazy people, I learned to interact with men and women whose social skills drive others away instead of inviting them into conversation. And while I still can be cold toward strangers who are looking for a dialogue (or an ear for a monologue), I try my best to be open to the interactions I could have with the random person I meet.

I found myself in such a situation last night while waiting for a Portland city bus to whisk me away to the Keippela's home one last time. As is the norm, I silently waited with a handful of other strangers, staring up the street in anticipation of the desired bus. A woman came up to the bus stop, grinning at me as if I was an old friend. With her thin lips and curly short hair, she reminded me of an aged Meg Ryan (pre-botox). She was wrapped tightly in a black overcoat that couldn't hide her slight frame and her knitted scarf ruffled up to her gaunt face. Breaking the code of bus stop silence, she asked, "What bus are you waiting for?"

"The 35. And you?" I stretched out from my introverted state.

"The same. I just don't know when our bus is coming." She leaned against the railing next to me, making herself comfortable for the wait. "You know, at work--I work at this building where they have cubicles..."

I've got a rambler here, I restrained a roll of the eyes. I ran into a similar type in Longview, Washington, when bussing my way up to Olympia. He ended the conversation by telling me how his mom was killed when hit by a train. However, according to him, it was "not that bad. She wasn't nice. She wasn't a good mom. My dad didn't even like her." I wondered if this interaction would be just as fascinating.

Noticing that I was sniffling and coping with a cold, she spoke about a soup she learned about. "It's called 'sick people soup.'" She listed off the vegetables needed. "It calls for miso, too. You know, bean curd. But I didn't have any, so I put refried beans on it. 'Cuz that stuff is spicy! It elevates the, uh... oh, what do you call 'em? Those things." She waved her hands around her chest and stomach, hoping I could finish her sentence. "Well, the spicy stuff is good for you."

Portland State students passed by. Crowds entered and exited the restaurant on the corner. People gathered to wait for the bus, and I continued suppressing sneezes. All the while, my new acquaintance continued to talk, routinely adjusting her glasses with her leather-gloved hands.

She directed the conversation toward me. "Do you work or go to school?"

"Neither. I travel." This was the first time I'd ever defined travel as what I "do," and my heart jumped with a bit of joy.

"Where are you traveling?" Her eye narrowed in interest. She leaned toward me, her weight still resting on the railing separating our personal bubbles.

I explained my recent travels and upcoming plans. Usually, with strangers, I am reluctant to use the term "Catholic Worker." Mainly because I don't like answering the same questions over and over again, especially being asked if I'm a nun. Yet despite my limited energy due to my cold, I thought I'd return the favor of monologue and briefly explain the Catholic Worker movement to my bus stop buddy. Serving the poor, community, hospitality, nonviolence, the whole shebang.

She was immediately amazed. "That's wonderful. That's God's work." Her face lit up with a smile, and she fixed her glasses more rapidly. My few sentences were enough to spark her lengthy stories about giving her jackets away and revelations of Jesus calling her to Him. "Revelations are just dreams that God wants us to have," she clarified. Our bus arrived mid-story, and she followed me on, weaving her tale as we took our seats on opposite sides of the aisle.

The rumbling of the bus and constant influx of passengers made conversation impossible for us and I was preoccupied with making sure my luggage wouldn't hinder the path of fellow riders. When I was finally situated, the woman wrapped in black had found a new seat.

That was nice, I happily reflected. People just want to connect with other people.

Some minutes later, I saw movement to my right, and the Meg Ryan lookalike was seated next to me. She wore an expression of giddy anxiety. I smiled to her.

"The Lord wanted me to tell you something," she spoke confidently. "Actually, He didn't have to tell me, I just knew to tell you: You are doing His work. By helping the poor, you are doing His work. And it looks like you're not feeling well right now, but you'll get better. I'll pray for you."

There was a point when I could have entertained her fantasies about God and grinned and nodded and told myself, "She's crazy." Instead, I felt her loving concern and faith. I smiled as she professed. I was smiling so deeply my cheeks were going to cramp.

"The Lord is going to test you," she warned, "because He tests everyone. But keep doing what you are doing, and you will be fine. Don't stray from the Lord."

She looked down to her lap. "I wanted to give you these." In her small hand were a plastic wrapped collection of prayer cards with Bible verses printed on them. "They help me a lot when I'm having a hard time. This is my last one, and I want you to have it."

She reached to me, I reached to her, and in between us was prayer. "Thank you," I whispered.

She released the cards into my hand. "You know, I think I was supposed to meet you."

For the remainder of the bus ride, she spoke more about pastors she knew, asked if I worked to "save" the poor (my response: "St. Francis said, 'Preach the Gospel, and if necessary use words.'"), and told stories of friends who had been healed. We introduced ourselves by name. Sherry smiled and said goodbye as I exited the bus.

Oftentimes, "normal" people grow wary of those who hear God. We deem them crazy, and their message is lost. Sherry has probably been ignored, shut down, or unprofessionally diagnosed by people she has met. Do I believe that she actually heard God's voice? No, I don't. But her kindness, outgoingness and obvious faith are gifts that were offered within our hour of knowing each other. And no matter her place in life, who am I to deny such gifts? And who am I to say they are not of God?

So I think Sherry was right. I think we were supposed to meet.

The Keippelas

2009-10-03T13:40:00.000-07:00

When I moved from Los Angeles to Oregon, I knew my ideal situation would be living with the Keippela family. Four years ago, I met Kacy as my supervisor at the University of Portland Office of Volunteer Services. The two of us hit it off and maintained what we jokingly refer to as a "secret relationship" throughout the year. I lived just two blocks away from Kacy and her husband Andrew, and spent a good amount of my junior year at their house. They took me out to dinner for my 21st birthday, tried to set me up with one of their friends, let me store all of my stuff in their garage one summer, and even let me crash at their house for a few nights when I was transitioning from one living situation to another.

Throughout my junior and senior year of college, Kacy and Andrew grew to be two of my closest friends. I learned about young marriage from them, and witnessed their dedication to each other during the beginning months of their lifelong commitment. Despite my differing political beliefs and world view, we respected each other and felt comfortable speaking openly; and when I told them about the Catholic Worker, they were very supportive. Kacy and Andrew saw me through travels to Nicaragua and Los Angeles, graduation, immense transition and inevitable heartache and my move to LA. I was present for Kacy and Andrew's adoption of their dog and first love, Oscar, the purchasing of their first home, and most recently the gift of their first child, Maxwell Alexander.

I had the gall to ask Kacy and Andrew if I could stay with them for a few months after leaving Los Angeles. Their response was immediate and welcoming, even after hosting another house guest for the three months prior. Once I arrived with my uncertain future ahead of me, they gave me a home. When I sank into the ruts of depression and loneliness, they offered me counsel. And without hesitation, they welcomed me into their family and asked me to be godmother to their son.

The expectations I had of these past months, as I have often written, were nothing of what actually happened. I thought Los Angeles was going to be the only place to which I would have an emotional connection, but the Tacoma CW dug into my heart. And now, I'm not leaving some place I've visited, or people with whom I can easily break ties. I'm leaving family... again. I'm packing my bags to venture out into a life yet to be determined, and I am saying goodbye to the Keippelas.

They are not affluent. They do not have a large home or income. They are not Catholic Workers. Kacy and Andrew are a middle class white couple who saw my need and offered food, shelter and love. They opened their house for hospitality. Once for a near-stranger, and again for me.

I share this story to lift up the Keippelas for their generosity and spirit of kindness. And I also share this story as an example of the great work an "average" person can do. Andrew told me a few weeks after I arrived, "We have that extra room and you need a place to stay." The logic was simple.

Without a doubt, Kacy and Andrew sustained me through what were months of confusion. They could have easily asked me to leave, or demanded a deadline for my stay. And while they may not define their generosity in this way, I received the grace of the Works of Mercy, and felt love that God asks of us all.

Thank you, Kacy, Andrew and Max, for everything you have given me.

More Confrontation With Money

2009-10-02T11:18:00.000-07:00

These past few weeks have been a blur for me. I left the Tacoma Catholic Worker with much more sadness than I could have anticipated. The community members and Jesuit Volunteers pulled me back to purpose. I spent hours in fascinating conversation about life, love, family, service, music, and community. I ended my days covered in dirt from the garden, and plans each night were anyone's guess. My three weeks in Tacoma excited me for my future route through the west coast.

My excitement did break, however, as my grandma was recently hospitalized. Days after, on September 24, she passed away in hospice care in Pasco, Washington. Grieving a family member is new to me as an adult, and the process weighs on me. Yet the blessing amidst the sadness is family. Children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren: we are bonded together in our love for Grandma. And while that love was comforting, I couldn't shake the expectation for Grandma to walk through the door of her Lutheran church and join us in singing her favorite hymns.

I won't pretend to have the slightest idea of the workings of life and death (I think my entries are proof of such ignorance); but in effort to further my understanding of life, I am confronting the issue of need. As a first step, this morning I worked on my budget for the year. When I decided to embark on this year of travel, simplicity was not a goal but a requirement. I hadn't hoped for extreme poverty, yet I find myself with $327.13 to my name (not including some leftover money on a Target gift card and Fred Meyer coupon).

Side note:
I AM NOT ASKING FOR YOUR MONEY.

I have been given money by some family and friends. Some people have bought me dinner, drinks, paid for gas. And for all of these acts of generosity, I am grateful. But I do not want to skim through this year on the dollars of my friends and family. Will I turn down your gift? No. Might I send it to a Catholic Worker or local organization? Yes, and I would encourage you to do the same.

I already knew I wouldn't be able to pay for flights across the country, which is why I quickly abandoned any hopes to go to the School of the Americas Watch, and the east coast Catholic Workers. When I was telling some high school friends about my financial situation, one exclaimed, "That's less than one dollar a day!" For some reason, I had never thought of it like that, probably because I didn't ever take a good look at how far I could get with my money.

I was resistant to make a budget because of my idea of simplicity: money is not the priority. And I still agree with that statement! Money is not the priority. When it is, we get wars and corporations. But I can't argue that money doesn't exist. I have money, and I am going about a system that requires money as an exchange for goods and services. It would be hard to convince Amtrak or Greyhound that a jar or two of homemade blackberry jam would suffice for a ticket to San Francisco (even though I think that's a fair deal). Plus, you can't make that trade online, which is a hindrance.

In more detail, my outline of finances shows that I have approximately $36.34 per month through June. (My plans after June? We'll talk about that in June.) Within mainstream society, I can't really make that pittance support anything. People who are receiving multiples of that are still fighting to keep above ground. Lucky for me there is more than mainstream society. There are Rideshares through Craigslist, the Lower Columbia Community Action Council, dumpster diving, Goodwill, and most importantly hospitality.

My biggest hope right now is not that I'll make it until June. I know I will. That's not in question. My biggest hope is that I can make it to June without expecting rescue. Less than $40 a month will be difficult, especially for the girl who used to regularly overcharge her debit card at the mall. I'm not looking forward to the inevitable "I don't have enough money" breakdown. As long as I stay true to my goals for the year (see below), I have to remember I will be fine.

Goals and Purposes

* to explore the Catholic Worker lifestyle in new environments

* to better understand the needs of, use for, and actions of community

* to challenge myself as an individual to take risks, face discomfort, handle uncertainty and eventually find inner strength and peace

* to learn more about simplicity, nonviolence, hospitality and service and how to incorporate these values into my life

* to interact with people I might never have spoken to

* to find beauty and grace, even in the midst of suffering

* to bring the Catholic Worker to my family and friends as something tangible, relatable, real, possible

* to learn to love more deeply and more often

* to find Jesus and my faith

Passion: It Hurts So Good

2009-09-09T11:37:00.000-07:00

I made it to the Tacoma Catholic Worker. And for the past three weeks have tried to keep busy amidst the community's attempt to restructure and redefine itself. I've found good, thankless work in the organic garden just outside the main house (there are 8 houses used by the Tacoma CW). I wake up at a decent, yet not lazy, hour to start weeding which is most of my labor. I spent a substatial amount of time harvesting the Asian pears, blackberries, tomatoes, miscellaneous squash, non-Asian pears, lettuce, beets and an occasional ear of corn. After I drained the garden of its yield, I helped to can the produce. And yesterday, I finally finished the blackberry jam project. But if I'm not in the garden, I sit back and witness community dynamics, have conversations with fascinating people (the Jesuit Volunteers are next door), search for a piano to play, and look forward to a year of discovering the lifestyle that fits me best.

A friend of mine is currently in a similar time of discovery, although half way across the country and without an organic garden. We met in Los Angeles, and he has since been a source of strength for me, possessing the unique ability to simultaneously calm and enlighten me. Our spiritual journeys have also been quite parallel, although his dedication to his own path seems much more solid than my temporal excitement.

Recently we talked of causes we believe are just. Essentially, we were asking: What do we do with our passion? Do we feed our passion to boredom to create a lively experience, or do we find what we need and cultivate our calling? We didn't have any decent answers.

Ironically enough, it seems the challenge is passion--reining it in, directing it. "Ambivelent" is not a word often used to describe a Catholic Worker. Yet sometimes our conviction as Catholic Workers is so strong that it drives others away, alienates us from dialogue, paints an untrue picture of our work, or distracts us from the journey toward Christ. In other situations, we feel the burning in our bellies and refuse to act for fear of disapproval. One of the many struggles I have lies within the risk of meeting the needs of my self and spirit without being dictated by the societal understanding of what is acceptable. My friend's response to that revelation: "Welcome to following the Gospel."

In Greek (pema) and Latin (pati), passion literally means suffering. Hence, we call the series of events leading to Jesus' death The Passion of Christ. This is slightly reassuring, only in the sense that my struggles with my chosen path now seem to have Greek and Latin meaning. It makes me wonder if the Buddhists really have got it down: Life means suffering (one of the Four Noble Truths). And the Noble Eightfold Path leads one out of suffering and to Nirvana. It transforms suffering into a higher level of existence, ultimate wisdom. Similarly, Jesus' death brought forgiveness and eternal life, and our following Jesus can lead us from the suffering of mortal life to immortal grace and love.

As I continue to learn, the journey seems to be within the challenge, passion and confusion. My dear friend and I are stuck on a path with blind turns, but we maintain faith that each step and the destination are grace. In the meantime, what do we do with our love, hopes and desires blooming from our passion?

"Maybe we just have to demand more from the world and, in turn, ourselves," I reached for wisdom.

"Maybe not more," he replied, "but just something different."

Get Going

2009-08-19T10:18:00.001-07:00

Since moving to Portland, I have faced lingering depression. Away from the community that provided me with structure and purpose, I am trying to learn on my own how to be myself and proudly declare my intentions, values and desires.

I had great dreams of scanning the east coast and drinking in the culture of Catholic Workers there. Strangers becoming friends, new land becoming home. And now, I am in Portland, a familiar city, waiting for my friends to call, sitting at home unemployed, suffocating with self-pity. My plan was dying, and I mourned. I didn't have a job so I wasn't getting money, which meant my traveling would have to be limited. Underdeveloped. Unsatisfying.

I decided last week that I can't sit around like this anymore. With each second I am not moving, it is one more second I am wasting my journey on remorse. So I emailed the Tacoma Catholic Worker to request being in their company in September. When I pressed "send," I felt a resurrection of exuberance. I felt purpose coursing through my veins. I remembered the adventure I lusted for, and felt it just weeks out of my grasp.

Yesterday, after weeks of waiting and hopelessness, I was offered a solid job. I turned it down. The decision was quite counterintuitive to my original desires of saving money while earning an hourly wage; yet I understood at the very moment the job was offered that I didn't want a job. I didn't need the few months of pay. In actuality, I needed to stop worrying about doing things "right" and start taking care of myself. And that meant to stop delaying my travels and get to it. I knew I had the funds, the connections, the capability. In declining the job offer, I had finally gathered the strength to immediately take care of my own wellbeing instead of characteristically stalling for anticipated comfort.

I believe I made the right decision, but I am still so wrought with confusion. Should I really be saving money? Should I strive for my great nation-wide adventure? Can a local adventure be just as exciting and exotic and worthy?

The biggest struggle I am facing now is: Were these past six weeks just a giant waste of time?

I'd like to believe they weren't. My Pollyanna optimism would say in response that I learned a lot about myself: that I need community more than I thought, that I have the ability to conquer fears and discomforts, that I can face challenges on my own, that it is difficult to be in a new culture after two years, that I still hold such high expectations for my life and guiltlessly compare my "achievements" to others. And my realist and/or pessimist side would woefully moan: it was all a waste, you could have traveled sooner and instead you just sat around and felt sorry for yourself. Go now, but you have 6 weeks less to do it.

I guess either way, I used six weeks--whether they were useful remains to be seen. I have to forgive myself for being melancholy and dragging myself down. Any additional time spent on thinking about my loss of time or my seemingly unnecessary sadness will hinder my travels even more.

But I am heading out of Portland because I know I deserve to have my adventure. I don't want to sit around dreaming about it, or earning money for it--money can't buy me a better experience. I want it now. I'm sick and tired of waiting for scenes in my life to miraculously start without my provocation, or waiting for permission from others to partake in the life I want.

So I'm preparing to head out. Not much longer in Portland. Soon I'll be on my way and I'll have stories and meet people and use the youth I have been temporarily blessed to enjoy. Get me out of self-pity and get me to joy!

I Was Hungry and You Gave Me Dumpsters

2009-08-09T12:29:00.000-07:00

I had the opportunity to dumpster dive while in Los Angeles. I was invited often during my last months, yet for many reasons I declined the offers. But the ideology behind dumpster diving was something I truly respected. In its best form, dumpster diving or food salvage or urban gleaning seeks to liberate food that has been unnecessarily discarded. Once gathered, the food is shared among community. The work is really what we do at the Hippie Kitchen: bringing forgotten and discarded men and women to community.

Sadly, or quite possibly luckily, I never had a reason to go search for free food. I was always provided with an abundance. But when I took a three week house sitting gig, I was confronted with the prospect of buying food. Since I'm trying to save money for travel and am still unemployed, my budget to spend any money is quite limited. I was not looking forward to spending it on food. The dumpsters remained my option.

The Internet proved a useful tool, once again, to educate me. Dumpster diving is a nocturnal activity. It's advised that a diver doesn't start until at least an hour after the store closes. Many places will have separate bins for food stuffs, or compost bins that look like dumpsters. There were a litany of excuses one could use if confronted by a store manager or, God forbid, a cop (many were "I'm sorry," followed by leaving, or a form of this response). And I should prepare to get dirty--wear long sleeves, pants and shoes.

On Wednesday, I skulked and whined and moaned. I was nervous to do it without familiarity of the process and all by myself. I scoured the Internet for more tips and hotspots around Portland, and hoped there would be meet-ups or groups already formed. There weren't as far as I could see, so I tried to form my own. I scrolled through my contact list and called my friends I thought would be interested.

Lo and behold, Karen called me back. Lovely Karen who, while we were at the University of Portland, became one of my few allies in social justice and peace effots. Preparing to leave Portland in less than two weeks, she heard my message and decided, "You only live once." She came over and gave me shoes to wear, as I only had sandals at the time. We loaded up. Armed with flashlights, a few bags, and NPR on the radio, we drove into the dark, suburban night.

It was disappointing. We traveled the roads of northwest Portland and its suburbs, and found that all of the suburban markets used trash compactors. We stopped at at least ten locations ranging from bakeries to cafes to fancy markets (ie: Trader Joe's, New Seasons). After the slew of trash compactors, we grew desperate. Our fear of approaching the dumpster took flight and we found ourselves tempted to look into each dumpster we saw, hoping for a treasure trove of unwanted food. But no. Leftover suburban food, it seemed, was to be fed to the hungry and effective trash compactor. After driving for 1 1/2 hours, our enthusiasm and excitement was slaughtered. We gave up and drove home in our clean clothes. I fell asleep at 1am, defeated.

The next day, I was determined to find food and feeling much less anxiety toward confronting the green, metal bins. Another UP ally, Valerie, RSVP'd for a Thursday night session. For the second night in a row, I peeked under the dumpster lids of Portland markets. Valerie and I made a few stops, only finding some oranges and apples in a Trader Joe's compost pile. Feeling less defeated than the night before, yet still unsatisfied, I dropped Valerie off at 12:30am and made my way back home.

As I crossed the Willamette River into northwest Portland, I decided once more to see if there were any stores that donated food via dumpster. I didn't want to go home empty-handed. I couldn't even find the dumpster at a second Trader Joe's, but a market nearby had an open dumpster right in plain sight. I parked, hopped out of the car and expected to see nothing, or a lot of trash. But right on top was a large bag, full of bread. I balanced my torso on the edge of the dumpster leaned my head in, and pulled out the bag only to reveal more food. I was ecstatic. Checking the hardness of the bread, it was clearly still good. I reached in the dumpster once again to liberate more food.

Driving off, I was motivated. I cruised for more dumpsters. At another store close by, a line of three dumpsters were carefully situated between the concrete walls of two buildings. It seemed to good to be true: the area was well lit and the dumpsters were wide open. I peered inside the nearest bin and saw, underneath a few garbage bags, dozens of bananas. I tried to balance my weight on the dumpster as I had done earlier, but I couldn't reach the bushel. I took a step back and stared at the dumpster for a moment, wondering what to do now. Then, quickly and instinctually, I climbed in and stood on top of the garbage bags.

I'm sure I looked like a frightened fawn learning to walk. I lifted my knees and kicked my feet in my attempts to maneuver in the metal compartment. At some point, I stopped caring about propriety and cleanliness. I was already in a dumpster, mingling with trash bags. So I started making room my myself to dig down and get the produce. Chucking bags in other dumpsters, pushing, tugging, smiling the whole way. My adventure was set to the soundtrack of the market's reeled music still serenading the empty lot. I conquered two of the bins and retrieved two dozen bananas, nectarines, cantaloupes, apples, grapefruits, onions, roses and a single potato.

As I piled the food in the back of the car, I felt more than a sense of real accomplishment. I confronted my fear of failing at new experiences and anxiety of facing challenges alone. And I came out unscathed. In fact, at the end of night, I realized my strength and capability.

I drove home, proudly unloaded my find, took a long, refreshing shower and went to bed. At 1:30am, I feel asleep happy for the first time since arriving in Portland.

Shed a Tear of Complete Dumbfounded Glee for Me

2009-07-18T00:44:00.000-07:00

The past few weeks have been a whirlwind of questions. My family's minds and friends' minds have been stirring up questions. The following is a compilation of the common reactions and questions I have encountered in two weeks:

So what do you want to do now that you're not in LA?
Well, I'm trying to find work so I can save money to do a tour of the Catholic Workers around the country.

I mean what are you going to do about a career?
Yea... I really like the Catholic Worker mode. Intentional communities, service, simplicity: I'm drawn to that.

That doesn't give you any money! You know you can be of service to others without living in voluntary poverty or without health insurance.
I know.

When you get married and have kids, you're going to need some money.
(laughs) I am not thinking about marriage and children right now. That's not really in my immediate future. I'll deal with that when the time comes to take that option more seriously.

Okay... how are you going to travel?
Greyhound, probably.

Really?...
...Yes. It's cheap.

Hm. Well, it's not the nicest way to travel.
Well, I'm pretty poor. So it's my only real option.

How are you feeling about all of this?
I'm very excited. I feel like I'm doing what I need to do, and this is a great time to explore. But I'm not sure where my life is going to take me or what this upcoming year is going to reveal to me. It's going to be a great ride.

Alright, the above scenario is not so accurate. Mainly because it doesn't show my extreme discomfort during the conversation. I hate to tell my family that this is what I'm hoping for myself. My time in Los Angeles was a journey for me, but also a journey for my family. They were dragged through watching me struggle with the intense emotional commitment I had with the guys and the community. They witnessed my loneliness in a big city. They read about my changing beliefs and values over the past two years. And I think my leaving LA was somewhat of a relief, but I'm not done. And to tell them that I want to continue with the Catholic Worker lifestyle for a while longer is like saying, "I know these two years were a bit of a roller coaster, but I need you to hang on for me. We're going to do this all over again."

Maybe the above is melodramatic, but I know that my family wants the best for me and the Catholic Worker isn't on the top of their list of things they'd choose for me. Maybe a teacher, social worker, mom, or even nurse (that was suggested to me by a family member this past week). They'd love for me to have a retirement plan, health insurance, a steady income, own a house someday (at least have enough money to rent), maybe even purchase a car or be able to go out every once in a while. My family wants me to have all these things because they love me and want me to have the comforts they know.

But the truth for me is that I have found happiness and comfort in the midst of the struggle of the Catholic Worker way. Part of the mindset I have now is that I can achieve and share my personal idea of success and unfiltered happiness without mainstream necessities. You could write it off as youthful abandon, crazy talk, fantasy. I certainly have wondered if my idealism has strangled all rationality out of my college-educated brain. Yet this doesn't take away the amazing transformation I underwent in the past two years and the incredible sense of purpose that drives me now.

After all this, I recognize I don't know much about life--which is why I am searching for enlightenment, a control freak, and shocked that I'm still unemployed after two weeks of job hunting. With my 24-year-old mind and spirit, I am deciding to follow my desired path of simplicity and service to learn more about life.

Upon reading this this statement, maybe you will roll your eyes, or shed a tear (of frustration? of sorrow? of complete dumbfounded glee?). And who knows, maybe I will get some answers along my journey. Maybe, even, I will reach my destiny.

So Much Fear In Such Little Time

2009-06-25T11:42:00.000-07:00

When one part of my life changes (for better or worse), I silently expect all aspects of my life to also change (only for better). As if I am waiting for one flaw in my life to be fixed so everything else can fall into place. A domino theory for my identity.

Of course, on top of all of this, I arrogantly assume this personal betterment will occur without any personal effort. If the fates give me more free time, for example, I assume that exercise will fill that slot and I will enjoy it!... even though I characteristically dread exercise routines and avidly deter such exertion. And when I come to see my afternoons are instead saturated with naps and other inactive activities, my perception of myself sinks to negativity: I am physically and mentally idle and without motivation.

Currently, I am a few weeks into a sizable change in my life. I have left Los Angeles and the community in which I participated for two years. I am facing an uncertain and important path of travel, exploration and sacred time for my own understanding of life. Not only do I have free time, but I find there is no routine. Every choice for my life is suddenly decided by me--from the time I wake up at 11am to the time I go to bed after two glasses of wine. I am not obligated by a pre-planned schedule, and I am not responsible for much more than myself and my values. I am facing life, the world and society with me, myself and my vulnerability.

So what do I assume from this change? What I desire is not so much based on usage of this opportunity, rather it is based on a personality overhaul. I think many would approach a similar transition as a chance to expose their true selves to the world. I, however, would rather hide behind the facade of a different person when facing the world. During these introductory steps to independence, I prefer to be thinner, less sarcastic, more spontaneous.

The unattainable nature of my dream is unsettling and disappointing. I am frightened to approach my peers, new experiences and the general unknown as the person I am. I am fearful of displaying my true self, complete with flaws, shortcoming and ignorance.

Within the past week, my cowardice has taken physical forms, as well. Sleep has recently been limited, haunted by nightmares or (when sleep finally occurs) uncomfortable. My appetite wavers between dangerously nonexistent to gluttonous. My mood is unpredictable and inexplicable. And while I enjoy sharing conversation with others, I have turned deeply inward.

I carried my self-assigned burden without real understanding of its roots until I forced myself to sit down and ask myself what was wrong. Actually, I hiked around and asked myself. After an hour of solitude in the dried and recently burned forest outside Pine Mountain, California, I "got it." And I was intensely ashamed to realize once again my unsteadiness is caused by my insecurities. Even more embarrassing is that I thought I had harnessed these fears and unrealistic desires.

The upcoming weeks feel like a tidal wave on the horizon and I am only equipped with an umbrella. In other words, I anticipate more discomfort. Learning to let go of fear and embrace the present has been a difficult path for years now. Accompanied by the challenge of loving myself--my current, broken self--I feel overwhelmed.

Now, I have to stop equating a change of scenery with a need for a new self. Adding that burden to what is already a litany of challenges would only break me. If my journey is so important, if this upcoming year still means as much to me as it did when I was in Los Angeles, I have to lift it up, slide on my yoke and walk this path. I am now obligated to refuse fear for my journey.

Lessons from the Poor

2009-05-31T19:18:00.000-07:00

On June 17th, Los Angeles will no longer be my home. After spending a bit of time with friends and loved ones, I will arrive in Portland exactly two years after I left, never assuming I would seek out the city again. And from that point, I hope to earn some money doing whatever I have to do that's legal so I can travel to different Catholic Workers and intentional communities around the country and--eventually--the world. I hope to get some writing in along the way, reflecting on my two formative years here in LA. And I know I will be searching for what I need from a community and what I need from a city. Although, I'm sure more questions will arise along my nondescript pilgrimage.

The hardest part so far has been telling the guys down at the kitchen. Albeit flattering, their complete disapproval of my departure forces out suppressed tears and resurrects a forgotten feeling of doubt--the same doubt I struggled with when leaving Portland for Los Angeles. Reactions include the following:

"The sun hasn't shined since you broke the news of leaving... [starts singing] Ain't no sunshine when she's gone..."

"I think I have a chain. Now I just have to find someone who has a manacle so I can tie you to the kitchen. I'll give you a 30' radius."
(another man in response) "Yea, enough for her to get to a piano."

"Oh yea, you're young! Enjoy the world!"

"I'm gonna miss you like the desert misses the rain."

"Oh no! Why?!"

These men from the Hippie Kitchen have not only claimed territory on my heart, but they have managed to grab such a strong hold that I can feel our desperate clinging as I prepare to leave.

Within the past few weeks, I have essentially demanded that I be at the kitchen at least two of the three kitchen days each week. I have kept my eyes panning across the garden for long-lost guests of whom I have been thinking recently. I have created a mental list of guests I want to tell personally that I am leaving soon, yet have delayed a good amount of conversations out of pure grief.

The men and women from the Hippie Kitchen have been the most formative aspect of my time in Los Angeles. They, the outcasts and forgotten of our society, invited me into the intimate details of their lives, demonstrating trust and openness--two qualities, I now realize, I was not offering. They furthered my commitment to nonviolence upon my seeing the plethora of veterans fighting PTSD and other war-related syndromes 35 years after their tours. They challenged and restored my faith in a God who loves us unconditionally. They gave me a reason to be passionate about the work to which I dedicated my past two years.

To see any homeless individual now and not attribute Jesus, dignity, hope and persistence would be to deny all of my experience through the LACW. I am blessed to have worked for these men and women who have so much to give, so much to say, so much love in their hearts, that (for all us Christians) it is indeed sinful to see them for anything less than a true manifestation of Christ's image.

So I prepare to journey and let my heart be torn apart by more wonderful men and women who face strife within an unrelently harsh culture. More tears and more restoration of purpose are in the cards, I'm sure. Maybe I'm just giving my heart to the poor so I can show love over and over again; and, to show the smallest bit of solidarity with their pain, my heart can be broken again and again in return.

"Darren" and "Matt"

2009-04-06T11:51:00.000-07:00

It is true: I am leaving in June. I was thinking about waiting until just a few weeks before the official announcement via blog, but then I realized that (1) barely anyone reads this, (2) the few people who do read this already know I'm heading out, and (3) I'm really not that big of a deal, so it's not earth-shattering news that I'm leaving Los Angeles... in fact, I doubt that Los Angeles, a city of 4 million, will notice that I'm even gone.

Despite my cynicism toward the city and its concrete, Babylonian existence, I have experienced very formative situations here and met a slew of people who are making it difficult to think about saying "sayonara."

A few people I don't believe I've mentioned in this blog are from the kitchen: Darren and Matt (names changed, as always). These are two magnificent men with witty spirits. Both are Vietnam vets who are bitter about the VA's treatment of them and their peers (not to mention actually having to be in Vietnam, which gets them pretty irked, too). Although they have such youthful and curious personalities it is hard to believe that either of these men could have been armed and face-to-face with the deemed enemy 40 years back.

Darren has so many interests and has been so many places. Each time I speak with him in the garden, I get sucked into a deep conversation about a sect of the world and his travels, or photography and other hobbies, or happiness and the meaning of life. Recently, Darren lent me a book about creating my own dark room when he learned I started teaching myself photography. Darren is engaging in a way I have rarely come across in others, and is a genuine person, not a cocky, arrogant man seeking to teach me the ways of the world, hoping I will gain something from his wisdom. He is instead modest, not outspoken and willing to share--a great conversational companion.

He is about my height, is always searching for a hug from me, and has a slightly high pitched voice which piques when he is most enthusiastic. Darren limps with the wooden cane he juts in his direct path. I have never seen him eat at the kitchen. Rather, he gets a big container and fills it up. I imagine he eats his beans and salad through the day and night, especially when he is unable to sleep because he is stuck in a rut of depression or deep thought.

And Matt... one of the most child-like 60-somethings I have ever met. He is insistent he is living his second childhood, that he was blessed with a second go-around. Topics of conversation include marriage (ours), his Harley which he has yet to purchase, and college sports. He calls me the "Oregon Hippie Girl" and I just call him by his name, trying not to encourage his flirtatious behavior. Nevertheless, we get along well and he is more protective than predatory. In fact, one day I was breaking up a fight in the line, and Matt almost jumped in to "save" me. I had to talk with him to say that his actions were aggravating the person I was trying to calm down, and to go into the garden. Matt didn't like this at all and refused to listen to me. Later in the garden, he said, in good humor, something along the lines of me being too tough for his help.

Matt is huge. He towers over me and I'm thankful I'm on his good side because I'm sure if he wanted to harm anyone, he could. Matt always wears shorts and usually has some kind of USC or veteran propaganda on his shirt. A do-rag or hat covers his grey cornrows and sunglasses block a good view of his yellowing eyes.

These two men are quite different, but are always excited to see each other. Matt usually shouts out a "hoo-rah," and they both talk about how no one says it the right way anymore. Darren sits and watches the people pass, patiently waiting for his turn to speak while Matt lays on his go-to lines regarding our usual topics of conversation.

I thoroughly enjoy both of their company, and have yet to tell them I'm leaving. Telling the guys at the kitchen is definitely going to be harder than telling the community. The bonds with the guys are why I really came here after college, why I re-upped for another year, why I miss work after being sick and home for a week, and why my heart breaks when I imagine not seeing the 3+ days out of the week. My life with be so different without seeing Darren and Matt on a regular basis.

It's all a part of the transition, I guess.

Stress Levels

2009-03-19T15:13:00.000-07:00

"Stress is an ignorant state. It believes that everything is an emergency. Nothing is that important. Just lie down."
--Natalie Goldberg

Ironically enough, I had to re-type the above quote four times before the bold command obeyed. Meanwhile, I was thinking, "You stupid computer!! Why aren't you working?!" And then I realized I was consumed by the ignorance of stress... once again.

My dad will be the first to agree that I have issues with control, which lead to issues of stress and anxiety when I'm at my worst. In college, he called me up to tell me a joke:

Knock knock.
Who's there?
Control Freak.
Cont--
Control Freak who??

Yes, hilarious, Dad.

But in the past four years, I have dealt with my stress in very different ways: playing the piano, crying, eating, watching television, ceramics, talking with friends. Many different ways in handling the repercussions, but never hitting the root of the problem.

And now, as I type, I am dealing with yet another repercussion of my stress. It seems I physically hold my stress in the muscles just behind my shoulder blades. And it seems that life has been just a bit too stressful lately because I have acquired a tight mass at the top of my right shoulder blade which makes any movement of my arm and neck very painful. I went to the doctor on Tuesday, and she said, "Well, you're just a ball of stress!"

I wonder why?

Maybe it's because I'm leaving in June. Leaving Los Angeles, not to mention the community I have spent the past year and a half trying to immerse myself into. I'm looking forward to traveling after I save up some money, but that also means that I will not have the securities of a community as I do now. I will be emotionally homeless.

Maybe it's because I have seen so many flaws in myself lately and have desperately staged a coup over them, trying to perfect myself. The patience and grace that are required to lead such a transition have not, as of yet, come into my grasp. I am grappling with too many flaws and not enough encouragement.

Or maybe it's because of the work I do, the complete surrender I experience when working in the garden, the all-encompassing worry I carry for each person I talk to, and then the heartache I feel when I see pain in one of my friends.

Maybe those are some reasons for the pain in my shoulder.

What is so difficult about all of this is that, unlike Natalie Goldberg's suggestion, I think they all are emergencies. I think all of my problems must be solved immediately for my own sanity, and they must be solved (most importantly) my way.

But in the Catholic Worker lifestyle, and in the peace movement, there is an understanding that the work we do is not for us and we cannot enter this work expecting to see results in our lifetimes. We do the work because it is the right thing to do, because Jesus did this work and because we care for the future of our world. There is an accepted slowness to our projects. While the need peace in foreign countries and even in our hometowns may seem immediate, the reining power of peace as a worldwide phenonenon takes time.

When I compare my own stresses to the problems of the world, and in turn compare my own sense of urgency to the snail-paced spread of global peace, I am humbled. If the world can hold on for peace, and therefore struggle with the discomforts in the meantime, then I can hold on through my own discomforts, as well. So, I will be grateful for my time in Los Angeles and the community in which I have experienced so much love and formation; I will continue to try to see myself through the loving eyes of God; and I will take deep breaths at the kitchen. And one day, I will fully understand the ignorance of stress.

Not Giving Up for Lent

2009-03-03T13:04:00.000-08:00

Lent is here again. The season I almost dread because it is a dedicated season in which I am forced to reconcile my benign faith, my faults, my fears, my brokenness. Selfish reasons, I know, especially when the Lenten season is really about Jesus preparing to be sacrificed in the most barbaric sense for the sins of his brothers and sisters--a sacrifice we will never be able to emulate.

Yet, we try. And I almost despise the pressure to find something to "sacrifice" for Lent. What will it be this year? Will chocolate, beer, television, Facebook be enough to parallel Jesus' surrender? I, like many, face the temptation of receiving a tangible result from my Lenten penitence. Weight loss would be nice, or more money in my account. Rarely would my thought process include considering the spiritual repercussions of my choice. So, for the past few years, I have refused (yes, refused) to give up anything for Lent to spite my tendency toward "results." Instead, I led my life as I did through Advent, Pentecost, Ordinary Time--you know, in mediocrity.

This year, however, I decided to redirect myself to a path of reflection, to recognize the blessing within myself. It seems selfish, focusing on myself, and I never like to spend time thinking about how "awesome" I am. In fact, my time is more often spent dissecting my flaws, magnifying my shortcomings, staring intently at the unattainable standards I have set for myself. But after recently reading Henri Nouwen's Life of the Beloved, I came to a new perspective of self-love and self-hatred.

Nouwen insists that we are all broken and incapable of loving others and God until we love ourselves. We must humbly accept our brokenness, yet recognize our lives as a loving honor from God. Life is not a curse, rather the most incredible gift and worth such gratitude and joy which we will never be able to fully express.

It seems the only way we can show appropriate thanks is through loving ourselves despite our flaws--by not looking a gift horse (God) in the mouth. This is where is gets sticky for me. Nouwen's "steps" (although he never refers to them as such) ascend from loving yourself to loving God and others.

I think I've been living my life backwards...

My love has always gone out to others--family, friends, the guys at the kitchen, my community--and I have seen self-love as indulgent, egotistical and unnecessary. If I love others, then I love God. Check. Done. Finished. Next task? But the idea of lifting myself up as I lift up others is a concept not readily available to me. I don't know how to love myself. Sad, isn't it?

This all leaves me with the questions: Does that mean I don't really love my family, friends, the guys at the kitchen and my community? Does my self-hatred mean I also hate God?

I hope not.

These questions are why I'm not giving something up for Lent in the material sense. I am, as said earlier, focusing on a path of reflection. For Lent, I am teaching myself how to love myself because I want to love more. I want to be a peaceful disciple. I want to walk with joy. I need to be in unity with the sanctity of life.

So I'm sacrificing the horrible things I tell myself: that I'm too fat, too mean, too sarcastic, too ungrateful, too ugly, too ignorant. I am laying down my snarling at my flaws and my muted weeping over the unreached goals. I hope to replace this all with joy, forgiveness, some grace when possible and, eventually, love.

Learning the work of love is a lifelong journey, and it was for Jesus as well. He faced the tests of temptation, the bitter hatred of those who deemed him "enemy," and the selflessness of giving one's own life. Yet all the challenges led to the Miracle. The Ressurection. So I am anticipating these vernal weeks to be my first beautiful insight to the intertwined gift of love in all life. Yours. Mine. Ours. And in time, I humbly hope my forthcoming enlightenment will bring the same salvation as the man who, with scarred and bloodied flesh, rolled away the stone to deny death and restore life.

Forgiveness

2009-02-02T16:09:00.000-08:00

Then Peter came to him and said, "Lord, how many times must I forgive my brother who sins against me? As many as seven times? Jesus said to him, "Not seven times, I tell you, but seventy-seven times!"
--Matthew 18:21-22

It is difficult to truly forgive, and I am not sure if I am capable of such a beautiful act. My tendency is to hold grudges and judgments in my heart as my mouth speaks words of love, as I write phrases of peace.

At the kitchen, we witness the consequences of gentrification, of war, of misplaced priorities. I see men and women I have grown to love walk through our line; I am struck with sorrow and anger. Am I capable of forgiving those who contribute to oppression? If face to face with a loft-dweller, could I say, "You are persecuting my friends: fellow children of God; although you have hurt me through your oppression of them, I love you not only because I am called to, but because I want to. I ask you to forgive me for my judgments against you. I rejoice in this newfound love, this forgiveness"?

If face to face with a police officer of the mayor, could I say, "Your enforcement of policies has demonized and tortured my friends; yet I forgive you because I cherish the bond we share as brothers and sisters in Christ. I hope you will forgive me for my demonization of you and your work. My love for you is just as important as my love for the poor"?

The struggle to seek forgiveness is great, as well. The flaws I carry are deep and I feel the crevices of sin throughout my day. In order to continue my work, to live a life of nonviolence and to follow the path of Jesus' sacrificial mercy, I must be able to kneel before those I have hurt and understand I may not receive the forgiveness I so desire. I might be instead spat on, criticized, or hurt in return. Yet in the tradition of nonviolence, it is necessary to humble myself in the presence of those I denied. And, in the end, it is necessary that I also lift my own yoke and forgive myself.

Possibly more difficult is to walk away from the act of forgiveness without pride, but with humility--still recognizing my own shortcomings and wrongdoings, seeing myself as a sinner just as the person I forgave, craving the forgiveness of those I have hurt.

And then, to continue to act with love. To continue to forgive and risk hurting others and self once again. To beg mercy from those I have wronged. To love those I do not understand. To embrace those I once deemed my enemies. To recreate my family to include all.

For now, my heart runs with cold currents of righteousness, weakness, fear, seeking validation, perfection and victory. The journey is lengthy and I do not see the end, but I hope I will learn of the forgiveness unconditional love has birthed.

2009-01-09T13:07:00.001-08:00

I know that eventually I'll have to write for my blog updates, but so much fun has happened in the past month or so that I thought pictures might be more appropriate (with little snippets of writing in between). Enjoy viewing my holiday adventures.

I made a deal with Herman (left) that he could check out as many books as he'd like from the public library on my library card if I could straighten his hair. Sam (right) didn't require negotiation. He just let me lay on the flat iron.

Rachel and I spent the day together just a while before Christmas. This is just outside the LA County Museum of Art. There was a big square of lamp posts, and we were having fun playing on them (just like all the other little kids who were running around). The picture was taken just seconds before the security guard asked us to get off the piece of artwork. Apparently, it's not meant to be interactive.

Christmas Eve was fantastic. All of us gathered together, sharing songs and gifts.

I got a bouquet of flowers from one of the guys at the Kitchen. Beautiful, no?

It rained on Christmas.

But we (me, Sam, Herman--l to r) cuddled up, listened to Jim Gaffigan's Beyond the Pale album and had some good laughs.

Ian and Dad visited, and boy were we excited! This is at the top of Pepperdine University. We were strictly told not to get out of our vehicle because the campus was closed. Well, if that security guard would have known what rebels we McGillivrays are, he would have thought twice before letting us onto his precious university.

We ate at The Pantry, a local hotspot, the morning before heading off to Disneyland (see below). It was an early morning, but we scarfed down a LOT of food.

And I made Dad and Ian go on the Tea Cup ride with me. (Mom: you were missed)

And they spun me around really really fast.

It was all great fun, although being away from Christmas for the first time was a challenge emotionally. Now, we're all back to our normal schedules. Piano lessons are underway once again. Soon, I hope I'll be taking a writing class at East LA College. Lent is soon on it's way, which means Seder will just just around the corner. While we're still in the midst of winter here in Los Angeles, there is much light. Much hope. Much excitement. Much love.

Merry Christmas

2008-12-21T10:53:00.000-08:00

Hey Family,

I know you guys would have liked to have been here. So, this is the best I can do (you can even see my piano teacher walk out and applaud after the first song). I love you and miss you. Merry Christmas.

Clare and Allison perform at the Neighborhood Music School Christmas Recital (Dec. 20).

Skylark (Mercer/Carmichael)

The Christmas Song (Arr. Brian Page)

2008-12-01T12:10:00.000-08:00

Life at the LACW in the past few months has been exciting to say the least. Below are just a few photos to illustrate some of what I've been up to...

At the end of August (yes, I know, ages ago), a few of us LACW ladies participated in a scavenger hunt held by an annual punk festival. The challenges included kissing a dog tongue to tongue, holding a boa constrictor, receiving a pamphlet of information from a Scientology center (extra points if photo documentation of a team member getting kicked out by security) and collecting items such as a human tooth, trophy, report card with an F, and a bowling pin. Another challenge: a team member can get a mohawk (20 points!). I offered up my own scalp. Sybilla, a summer intern and pictured in the background, enthusiastically set scissors and clippers to my hair. Nine inches gone, a great haircut still remains on my head. I've maintained the 'do. How many times in my life will my radical hairstyle couple so well with my radical lifestyle?

The music continues. Margaret and I have been scoping out open mic venues around Los Angeles (so if anyone has a suggestion, let us know!). The accordion is getting a little more playing time, and our music book is in the process of a major update. We are always looking for excuses to bring our music, and philosophy behind it, to others. For Margaret and I, music is not meant for performance, but for sharing. Music, in other words, is community. We cart around a milk crate full of percussion instruments and invite people to pick up a tambourine, shaker or their guitar and join in the experience. To sit back and listen is simply not enough.

The last two weeks of October were spent in Oregon with my godson, Maxwell Alexander Keippela. I got a refresher course on changing diapers, how to handle copious amounts of spit up (there's a photo that I chose to leave out of the blog... you're welcome), and grew evermore amazed each day at the fast development of this precious life. Being with Max and his dear parents was a renewal for me. It was an overwhelming reminder of the importance of the family unit, and while I am living in a community now, there is no replacement for the bond I have with my own kin. An early Thanksgiving passed through my heart.

Oh, we also went to the zoo, and Max wanted to spend some face-time with the animals...

This Thanksgiving, we hosted 80-some people in our warm home. The night before, a small crew of willing and young blooded sous chefs prepared the bread, garlic, and apples for the stuffing, along with four batches of cookies, a vegetarian stuffing, and two loaves of bread. Thanksgiving Day was met with great excitement and the house bustled early in the morning as we prepared the decorations, turkeys and all the fixings. A few trips to the Hippie Kitchen were required to pick up all of the guys we invited from Skid Row. Some even came clad in button-up shirts and ties. Our feast was a great success, and the afternoon ended with a grand, boisterous round of participatory music. Everyone left with beaming smiles.

Now, we ready ourselves for the coming of Christmas. This Advent season brings warmer weather than I ever imagined December could undertake, but the anticipation of Christ's birth still lingers in the LA heat. We at the LACW are grateful each day for the support of our volunteers and the persistence of the peace movement. During the upcoming weeks, our prayers will be centered around the well being of our friends who are suffering from critical illnesses, those who continue to struggle for comfort in Skid Row, and all of our brothers and sisters who pay witness to the underserved and forgotten. Our joy continues with our hope that Christ's message of compassion, mercy and nonviolence will soon permeate through our hearts and actions. Let Advent bring us the strength to carry out His message in our lives, to journey with Him down the path of true justice.

The Poor Are Still With Us

2008-11-29T16:05:00.001-08:00

It's that time of year... our annual appeal letter. Please read.

Pictures and stories to come. In the meantime, don't forget the true purpose of this season!

For You, Dad...

2008-11-09T15:27:00.000-08:00

Speaking with my dad about my recent posts and activities at the LACW, he encouraged me to "write something happy." I laughed at his request, thinking to myself about the men and women I see on a regular basis who struggle and fight for their quality of life. I continued to reflect on the "happy" aspects of the work of the LACW, and suddenly (and, albeit, naively) realized that there had to be something keeping me here. What is it?

The people. Although they can be depressed, angry, annoyed, and have the ability to suck out all stores of energy I might have, the men and women at the Hippie Kitchen are one-of-a-kind. And while there is suffering on the streets surrounding the Hippie Kitchen, we laugh and share entertaining stories of ridiculousness to keep spirits high. So these are a few examples of the simple hilarity we encounter at the kitchen, the way we stay sane, the way we keep up with our work...

There is a woman who frequents our kitchen. I have never spoken to her, maybe because I do not want to ruin the story I have created for her in my mind. Each time she comes to the Hippie Kitchen, she wears a different hat. I cannot say with confidence I have seen her in the same hat twice. Once, she had a banana-yellow foam visor with what looked like a foam fighter jet sticking off of it like a unicorn's horn. Sometimes she has different varieties of cowboy hats: a sequined, sparkly pink one or a black, leopard faux fur-lined one. Whether it is a construction helmet or a delicately knitted stocking cap, she faithfully wears a hat each day.

I wonder where she stores her caps. I imagine a garage full of shelves and hooks that she enters each morning. With her hand grazing her mole-speckled face (possibly plucking one or two of those stray white hairs from her chin), she gleefully picks a hat off of the display and sets it comfortably on her head. She grabs her woven plastic bag, tosses it over her hunched shoulder and presses on for the rest of her day.

Just this week, I saw her with a new accessory that particularly excited me: her shoes. They were silver moon boots (think: Napoleon Dynamite) with an embroidered flaming skull on the back of each heel. Above the orange, red and yellow design was, in Old English font, "Punk" on the left heel and "Rock" on the right heel. This woman is crazy, for sure, but she is pretty awesome, too.
-----
Our patrons usually have their own routines. Some come around in line exactly seven times to get exactly the amount of food they want. Some sit in the same spot every day we're open. Some bring their own condiments to put on their food. One man comes each day with his own head of garlic. Sweeping up around the garden, I will find clusters of garlic peels. I can count on them being by a certain water cooler and a specific corner of the garden. He can go through two or three garlic heads each day.

Garlic Man is an old white man with white hair highlighted with roots of grey. He wears a white shirt, cargo pants and a black vest zipped up half way. His large black backpack weighs him down and he leans forward when he walks. He always holds a look the same facial expression. I cannot tell if he is angry, frustrated, confused, or just spent too much time staring straight at the eternal California sun.

During election season, as I was cleaning up his garlic shedding, he spoke to me about a conversation with a volunteer of ours. "He said that people are getting carried away by this election," Garlic Man said with his nondescript look. I nodded in agreement. "But what does that mean?" he continued. "I mean, where are they getting carried to?" I could see this conversation was going down a road which I did not want to follow and tried to sweep in a different direction. But he pulled me into his sun-squinted musings. "I believe in alien abductions, you know. I was abducted..." and then I stopped listening.
-----
Occasionally, I am on the receiving end of an entertaining one-liner, pick up line, or random short story. Some examples... (please note: these were all said without preceding conversation--not even a hello)

"Why did you cut your hair? Oh, Allison, it looks horrible. It exposes your jawline... and your face."

"My sister's crazy and an alcoholic. Did you know that you can go onto the bus with a water bottle full of vodka and the bus driver will still let you on?"

(while working in our clinic) "I'd like Tylenol, a vitamin and your number."

"Girl, you got a round ass!" (said by a woman)

"You know who you look like? Sarah Palin. No no! Wait, that's a compliment!"

"Oh, so it looks like for once you're working."

There you go, Dad. I hope you're smiling!

Burn Out

2008-10-02T15:02:00.000-07:00

In the realm of Catholic Worker-type service, the subject of "burn out" is nothing foreign to volunteers and community members. It is dangerously simple to put one's nose to the grind and not look up, with the results ranging from loneliness and depression to obsessing over work to rigidity in self and routine. During my 14 months in Los Angeles, I have caught myself with my focus completely on work and consequently heading straight for an early burn out.

Today, however, I shared time with a Hippie Kitchen patron who has crossed the threshold of burnout and now confronts a deeper conflict with the worth of his own life. He has always seemed to be a happy, energetic man, and our exchanges have been quite positive and full of laughter. But I caught him zoning out at one of the picnic tables today, and jokingly asked, "You okay?" I was not expecting him to respond with such melancholy. His exact words do not resonate, but his expression was careless and empty.

Sitting down, I offered a listening ear and for twenty minutes, he spoke to me about his recent struggles. A new friend stole his bike--a crucial tool for his work and lifestyle. He has paperwork for two bank accounts (in a bank that has recently fallen victim to the economic collapse) that he needs to give to his daughters whom he has not seen in five years. He turned 55 in August and spent the entire day alone and depressed in his camper. He only receives $180 each month, most of which goes straight to gas for his camper and propane for his mini-fridge. Minor problems include the wearing of his shoes, the poor condition of his camper, and the heat wave that is passing through Los Angeles.

With my heart at my feet, all I could say with confidence was, "You know, when you come here, you are loved and welcomed. We are always happy to see you."

"This is the only place I can come where people speak to me and use sentences with more than three words. Thank you." His eyes slightly squinted to focus on his thoughts, but his sight was set on nothing. He continued to tell me his thoughts about suicide. "I even have the bridge picked out. I'm going to--"

I abruptly stopped listening, but not early enough to be in denial of his problems. After giving sufficient time to witness him lurch toward his breaking point, I excused myself to help clean up inside the kitchen. Telling a few community members of my concerns, the consensus was to take him to the clinic that is adjacent to our garden.

My friend was unlocking his borrowed bike, suited for a child, when I confronted him. "I'm worried about you. I think we should go see the doctors at the clinic and get you some help."

He pulled his key out of the bolt lock and stared at the ground, "Okay. Anything is better than this."

Getting to see someone at the clinic proved to be more difficult, even after saying the problem was contemplation of suicide. One of the women looked straight at him and, in a disapproving tone, scolded, "Well, why do you want to go do that?!"

Right as he was ready to leave, I snarled, "I think this is a pretty serious issue!" The woman dropped her folded arms in defeat and walked inside to get a nurse.

Now shaking, of nervousness or fear or nearing his tipping point, my friend sat down on a hard plastic chair. The nurse came in and spoke to him across the checker-tiled floor, asking routine questions. After receiving more information about his personal problems than she clearly cared to hear, she wrote him a referral to a social worker who would be able to provide assistance in all the necessary ways. I thanked her for taking her time (past her closing time) to talk with him.

As we walked back to his child-sized bike, I told him that I needed him to make a verbal promise not to hurt himself.

"I won't hurt myself today."

"No," I said sternly. Drawing back to my Resident Assistant training I demanded, "I need you to promise me that you won't hurt yourself until I see you on Saturday."

"Okay," he replied. "I won't hurt myself until Saturday, but I'm saying that because I really like you." We hugged and parted ways.

A community member said I did the most I probably will be able to do. There might not be more I can do to help him, and I have to realize there is so much I do not know about this man and his struggles.

Suddenly, burn out has a new meaning.

After A Year...

2008-08-11T23:26:00.000-07:00

The summer program is over. Six weeks of immersion for both the interns and the community. Amazing interns, I might say. The community cites this summer as the best they've had since... well, they can't remember when. I'm grateful to have survived my third consecutive summer with the LACW, and now, I'm off to start my second consecutive year as a community member.

July 18 marked the completion of my first year at the LACW, and I have been thinking lately of things I have accumulated since...

Nicknames
"Allison" turns out not to be the most common name, and actually has birthed many nicknames. Quite possibly more than I have ever had. The regulars include:
Alice
Alicia (for my Spanish-speaking buddies)
Ali (pronounced ah-LEE)
Al
Licha (again, a Spanish nickname meaning "darling" or something to that effect)
Allison (yes, it's different--pronounced ah-lee-SAHN)

Others include:
Baby
Linda
Girl
Hey You
Juera
Juerita

Weight
10 pounds, to be exact. That's what happens when copious amounts of cheese, bread, sweets and coffee are available. Actually, I shouldn't kid myself... there's just a lot of food. Soon, the weight will be all off. Give me another year, I promise.

LA Catholic Worker Tee-Shirts
We have for sale at the house "The only solution is Love" tee-shirts. Community members get them for free, one new one each year. But since I visited a few times during college and was an intern, I have three LACW shirts. And recently a friend went to the national 75th anniversary gathering and bought me a CW movement shirt. And we also have a "NO WAR" shirt. And then Margaret and I made LACW/SOAW Los Angeles shirts last November for the SOAW action at Ft. Benning. I lost count... is it somewhere around too many?

Ball Point Pens
Hoarding is not only a skill, it is a necessity at the Catholic Worker. I can't say anything for other houses, but here, things come and go in a jiffy. You want that muffin that's sitting on the kitchen counter, but you're not hungry right now? Take it. Who cares if you find it under your bed two weeks later. If you don't take it now, you might never get it. As noted above, I am in the process of avoiding the habitual collection of food. But I have continuously, throughout the year, kept a close eye out for nice pens. Ball point pens, preferably. Medium tip is nice, but I quite like the fine tip pens. Currently, I use them to work on the archive project (I'll touch on that in a minute); but mostly, I find the pen, use it once, and lose it. My inability to keep track of the favored pen only encourages the hoarding. I think one day, I'll clean my room and find dozens of them hiding in mysterious places like under all my LACW tee-shirts.

Tolerance for Dirt/Sweat/General Filth
It gets hot here. Really hot. And for an Oregonian, the Los Angeles summers send me into a sweat-induced trance. Add that to working in Skid Row, having limited clean clothes (our washer is known as the "dirtier"), and sporadic showering, and you get--no, not a hippie--tolerance. Even just 15 minutes after getting out of the shower, I kid you not, I already have dirt under my fingernails. I don't walk around like Pig Pen from Peanuts, but I wouldn't be readily welcomed by Howard Hughes. I do know how to accept hygiene as part of my lifestyle, so don't worry. I'll take a shower a few days after I can smell myself.

Useless Information Regarding the LACW
Want to know stories about the LACW that affect you in no way, shape or form? I'm your gal! Recently, I've taken up a much-too-large and self-consuming archive project. With almost 4o years under its belt, the LACW has successfully left no organized path to understand why it is the way it is today. Banana boxes full of unlabeled, undated pictures. Supposed milk crates in the abyss of the back house basement allegedly full of interesting articles, photos and miscellaneous archive material (Jeff, Catherine: you keep telling me they exist, yet you have no solid proof... I wait impatiently). Cassette tapes of interviews from certain people about certain things (again, unlabeled and undated). In a desperate attempt to prove to doubtful community members that my history major is in fact practical, I have decided to put order to this mess. So if you need to know when Jeff was arrested that one time for that one civil disobedience thing, or if you have a sneaking suspicion that something has changed since you last visited, ask me and I just might be able to give you an answer. Chances are, though, you really don't care.

Interested in Catholic Worker life? Internship? Volunteering? It's not as farcical as I am... so no fears. Contact us, and look for the Summer Internship issue of the Catholic Agitator!

Los Angeles Catholic Worker
632 N Brittania St.
Los Angeles, CA 90033

323.267.8789

lacatholicworker.org
info@lacatholicworker.org

Loneliness

2008-07-12T14:00:00.000-07:00

There are many instances which have led me to truly believe in the desperation of the human soul. We are all longing for connection. Dorothy Day's autobiography, The Long Loneliness, intimately focuses on her journey to find herself. The relationship in which she found the most comfort was the mystic connection between herself and God. Others find the solution to loneliness in family, a lifetime partner (romantic or platonic), or even with the companionship of a pet.

Lately, I have seen and listened to stories of overwhelming isolation. Some of the men and women who eat at the Hippie Kitchen experience not only the loneliness we all know in the physical and emotional sense, but also a spiritually exhausting hopelessness. How do we--as individuals, as a community, as a society and culture, as a family--heal our brothers and sisters?

In April, we hosted a music party at the Hippie Kitchen garden. We brought in the accordion, guitars, some percussion instruments, and a list of songs and music. It was a great hit, and the guys were more than happy to shout out names of tunes they wanted to hear. I remember saying, "We don't have 'American Pie,' sorry!" and hearing roaring groans of disappointment.

One of my favorite guests, and one of the two Persians I know who eat at the Hippie Kitchen, walked into the garden flushed and sullen-faced. It was quite clear he was drunk, and it was the first time I had even seen him under the influence. He is a well-kept man with a gentle and loving spirit. Whenever he speaks to me, he leans in a bit, almost a slight bow, and smiles to say, "Allison, how are you?" His greeting this time was strained as he asked to play the accordion. "You know how to play?" I almost scoffed in surprise. "Yes, yes. Give it to me," he replied kindly, and slightly slurred. Margaret and I helped to strap him into the large instrument.

The moment the accordion rested on his lap, although still intoxicated, his eyes alerted. I believe something was set off in his soul, and his drowsy eyes could barely express the change he felt. As he pulled open the accordion's lung, he recited the chord he played, "A." He continued to expand and contract the instrument, stretching it to his arms' full length and closing it almost completely. The music that emitted from his bony fingers was less than flawless. The heart wrenching tune he gave us lingered in the air as tears welled up in his bloodshot eyes. He stopped, wiped his face and said, "I haven't played the accordion in twenty years." Unable to clear his face of the salty streams, he got up and walked away.

Margaret and I looked at each other, and Margaret, being the braver one of the two of us, jumped up to follow him. A few moments later, I stood, trying to shake off the awe that had paralyzed me. He was ready to leave the kitchen when Margaret approached him and said, "That was beautiful!" Our new found musician muscled a smile and said with shame, "It just brought back too much... My mother and father... They died. And now, all I do is drink." Margaret, again finding words that I could not, set her hand on his shoulder and said, "We love you very much. And we support you." Using much of his remaining energy, he supported a smile, said thank you and left the kitchen.

A few weeks ago, he was telling me about the "mission life" as he called it. He has been mission-hopping for three years now, and is growing tired of the instability, the sermons that precede meals, and the strict hours in which guests are to check in and out. Staring off above my shoulder, he talked dreamily of having a room to stay in. "Nothing fancy," he said.

And suddenly, without prompting, he began to tell me of his journey to find Skid Row. Living comfortably with his mother, he had heard of the Los Angeles Mission, an organization still very much active in Skid Row. He sent a donation to the mission to support what he thought was important work. Soon after, his mother kicked him out because of his drinking problem and he found himself dependent on the very organization to which he earlier tithed.

"And I have to deal with anxiety," he moaned disappointingly. "I worry about so many things and I can't do anything because I worry. I live in missions because I cannot do anything. And my mother never understood why I worried so much."

While I know to keep distance between myself as a volunteer and the patrons of the kitchen, I knew I had to share with him my similar struggles. "I know exactly what you mean. It used to happen to me all the time." I continued to describe the physical manifestations of fear, and my handicaps when I am overcome by panic. He looked at me with his head cocked to the side, a curious grin across his face.

"I'm sorry you have to deal with that," I consoled.

"I'm glad you understand," he sighed.

Being Sick at the CW

2008-05-14T13:42:00.000-07:00

I remember when I was in elementary school secretly wanting to be sick more often so I could miss school. But when I got sick, it wasn't a day of fun. Besides the reality of feeling ill, queasy, achy or feverish, I was supposed to lie in bed and sleep and maybe I could watch a little television. And even to have this enormous privilege of staying home, the sickness had to be more than a cold. Living with aggressive allergies as a child, springtime would have been a jackpot for "at home" days if I was a better actress.

Now, at the Catholic Worker, I am sick. Not so sick that I'm going to curl over and die, and not so sick that I think I won't be able to work tomorrow. In fact, not even sick enough to feel right in skipping our morning routine (so I didn't). But I don't feel well. Headache. Constricted throat. Nose stuff I won't go into. No appetite. Complete exhaustion.

What is the CW response? Go to bed. Feel better soon. Strong undertone of: Get better soon so you won't be ditching us at work.

So, I go to bed. I rest, drink tea, and try to psyche myself up for a day of work tomorrow. And staying in bed these days is a true blessing. The community wants me to skip a meeting and go lay down? Sure I can do that! During past illnesses at the LACW, I was even sent home early from the kitchen. Although not 100%, I felt good enough to work for the day. But Jeff sent me home, telling me to get some rest.

In comparison to high school, let's say, this is a great improvement. I rarely stayed home during high school. Lots of responsibilities, lots of work, and lots of reasons to suck it up, pack kleenexes up the wazoo, and get to school. But now, any hint of sickness, and the entire community jumps up in alert: Are you feeling okay? Maybe you should stay home. No, that's fine. Don't go on the 6:30am crew tomorrow. I can substitute for you. And if you aren't feeling better for the 7:30am crew, just stay home. We'll be fine for volunteers at the kitchen.

A queen, I tell you. Treated like a queen. Well, a sick one.

But once you're feeling better, it's straight back to work. As if you were never bedridden. The workload is no slow integration back to the schedule. You're expected to get your nose to the grind and suck it up because you're not sick anymore!

For now, though, I'll try to feel better as soon as I can and appreciate the long naps (3+ hours). I'll be working at the kitchen tomorrow for sure.

Thank God for Vacation!

2008-05-04T12:32:00.000-07:00

I just completed my first week back from vacation to Santa Maria, California. I spent time with Dennis Apel and Tensie Hernandez and their children, Rozella and Thomas. They run the Guadalupe Catholic Worker that responds to the needs of the farm workers in the area. They were the better than any hosts I could have asked for. I was treated like a queen.

Early in my vacation, I borrowed the family's car and tried to visit Guadalupe Beach. In a very Allison-like manner, I missed the “4-wheel-drive ONLY” sign before the beach entrance. Driving in Dennis and Tensie’s sedan, I journeyed excitedly toward the beach and just 20 yards before the parking lot, I got stuck in what can be described as a small drifting dune. I imagined trying to tell Tensie and Dennis why I returned home without their car, but a kind man came to help me out of the trap. He and an annoyed park ranger pushed the car back and upon hitting solid ground, I left for another beach.

I drove up to Oso Flaco Lake, a common stop for the LACW during the summer visit to Guadalupe. My previous visits to Oso Flaco revealed the site to be a place of insight. I have important memories associated with the beach. I was a little disappointed I had to return to a familiar beach, but was soon excited to be stepping back to the ocean’s end. The wind was a bit strong, and I was in shorts and a thin jacket. I passed a few groups of people leaving the beach as I arrived. When I reached the ocean, I looked north, looked south, and looked behind me. I was the only one on the beach.

In truth, the beach is a bit intimidating. The greatness of the ocean and its seemingly endless span makes me feel small and insignificant. Despite this pit in my stomach, I followed my feet that led my southward along the incoming waves. I pulled out my camera to immortalize these moments of solitude, but the camera would not turn on. Instead, I kept myself company by singing and speaking my thoughts aloud. Soon, the wind picked up and my mouth actually became numb. Unable to speak, I was forced to accept the sounds of the magnificent blue abyss. I was forced to accept my smallness. Among the grains of sand, I was humbled. I looked out the ocean and prayed.

For two hours, I was alone on the beach. When I returned northward, my footsteps were the only signs of human contact with the area. Often times, I feel that chance or some light version of fate leads me to my current place. It is a rare occasion in which I truly feel that God is working through me. But that afternoon, I knew that the Spirit had led me to that beach, showed me meekness, and presented me with Its creation.

That afternoon inspired the rest of my vacation. I took time to be silent and appreciate the beating of my heart, my breathing, the intricate evidence of my existence. I read, a hobby I am rediscovering after about a decade break. Slowly, I accepted the true meaning of my vacation: myself.

(and a little bit of trampoline time with the kids doesn't hurt the human spirit, either)

Embracing Courage and Recognizing Fear

2008-04-18T20:30:00.000-07:00

I'll be the first to admit that I'm not a great line watcher. I get nervous when I have to tell someone that they can't cut in line, and they have to start at the end of the line. Most of the time, there's no big fuss made. The cutter will argue for a second, roll his/her eyes and comply or leave. Beyond the occasional cutter, I haven't had too much experience with conflict in the garden. The other brave female line watchers are usually the first to dive right between two angry diners. I'm right behind them... sort of.

In the past few months, I've mastered the "back up" position. Clare, Martha, Ann, or Catherine will sacrifice their bodies to whatever comes at them, words or otherwise; meanwhile, I linger safely out of the way, but close enough to run up to help them if I am needed. And every single time I've approached to help, I become the target of the diner's anger. This can be seen as a good thing since the negative energy isn't being focused toward another diner.

But right about now is when I start to lose my bearings. I am not tough. I'm 23, just over 5 1/2 feet tall, and not very strong. I haven't used my "mom look" as much since I moved away from my brothers, the frequent victims of such glares. In short, I am neither physically or psychologically intimidating. And when an angry kitchen patron starts to stare me down, my timidness starts to take over.

On Thursday, for example, there was a scuffle between a large man and surprising feisty yet petite woman. The verbal conflict seemed to be calming down until the woman was reignited. The man, under the coaxing of the line watchers, left the area. As the woman charged toward his back, not finished telling him off, two line watchers and I stepped in front of her. Comfortable with the relative calmness, I continued to clean the garden when I was stopped by the still-reeling woman:

"It is none of your business! When I have something to say, I'm gonna say it! You get out of my face. I wasn't talking to you! Next time you get in my face like that, I swear I'll beat the shit out of you!"

While she was speaking, I felt my awkwardness surface. I concentrated on my facial expression, my body language, and what I'm going to say next--and I know it was obvious I was uncomfortable. I am sure I was holding a facial expression that hinted toward an uncomfortable bowel movement. And then I just stood there like some defenseless idiot... an open target for whatever words come at me. I went back to sweeping with a giant pit in my stomach, thinking about how I could have handled the situation better. My conclusion: couldn't I just try to pretend to be under control?!

My fear of line watching stems from the fear of vulnerability. In the moment of conflict, I reassure myself that this is a practical fear--pain, physical or emotional, is not something I find too enjoyable. I try to prepare myself for anything that will come my way, but the only time I think about it is during the moment anything could happen. I criticize myself for not embracing the courage I know I have. I do have the capacity to endure the pain that could be bestowed upon me in an "incident." The reason I am (at this point, hypothetically) stepping in to squelch a conflict is to provide a peaceful and restful environment to the people who suffer so much abuse and harassment outside our garden.

I have to get over my fear so I can fulfill the role of the line watcher--a person who maintains the peace of the garden. I am afraid of saying something wrong, or clearly being void of authority. I have to remember that with time, I will begin to understand more deeply the role of the line watcher. And then I will stop making weird faces.

Reflections on April 1 Demonstration

2008-04-03T11:46:00.000-07:00

On Tuesday, April 1, the LACW was present for Mayor Antonio Villaraigosa's press conference regarding the installation of streetlights in Skid Row. Sadly, I was on "house" and was not present. Check out the links in the previous post for more information.

Since, the LACW has been all over blogs by Central City East (the lofters' name for Skid Row).

One man who was quoted in the LA Times article also wrote on one blog:

Just wanted to say that the residents that attended the "press conference" represented different groups that are working together to solve common problems in the Skidrow/ Central City East neighborhood. These groups were OG's N Service Association, Skidrow 3 on 3 Streetball League, Issues and Solutions, and Skidrow Brigade/ Homeless Coalition.

While we did not come to press conference because we agree with every aspect of Safer Cities Initiative...we did come to support those efforts that we do agree upon and to listen to what the Mayor's future intentions....As well as to express our own concerns! Those protesters (who did not live in this community) had the "freedom of speech"! Nevertheless, I and others have the "freedom to hear"! I believe that these protesters interfered with that right.

These individuals are here in this neighborhood from 9 to 5 ( or whatever time they leave). They go home to there comfortable homes and clean streets. They are not around during the evening time to see what the homeless do...they turn their eyes to the drug trafficking. They don't concern themselves with all the garbage and trash that is scattered around the neighborhood by the various "street ministries" that come claiming they are here to "help the homeless". Food and clothing end up on the streets of Skidrow. These protesters "point their fingers" at others...they need to take responsibility for the damage they do!

Again, I don't need others to speak for me...nor "think" for me! Too many people believe they have the solutions to our problems without asking the homeless what they think. And when they do ask...they simply ignore the homeless comments and suggestions. So, I believe that the protesters were being very rude to us that wanted to hear!

Benito Compito

My response is below. Thank you all for your support. It is conversations, demonstrations, and exchanges such as these that empower and motivate us to continue our much-needed work. Blessings to all of you!

With true respect to Benito Compito (aka OG Man), he is clearly unfamiliar with the Los Angeles Catholic Worker. He inaccurately claims we leave our average shift for our “comfortable homes” without concern for drug trafficking or the pollution of Skid Row, and are creating damage along the way.

The Los Angeles Catholic Worker, with a base community of ten workers, is rooted in the practical application of simplicity. Contrary to Mr. Compito’s accusation, we do not leave our soup kitchen for our cozy lives. We live, instead, in Boyle Heights, an area still pained by gang violence and suffering from increasing gentrification. Our lifestyle is supported purely by donations that are not tax-deductible; we live through the summers without air conditioning, and through the winters without heaters; much of our food is donated, and sometimes it is a second-hand donation; we do not have cable, a microwave, clothes dryer, dishwasher, or carpet. More importantly than what we do and do not have, we maintain the ideology of simplicity because we make every effort to sustain solidarity with the men and women we serve. A delicate balance is made between our service at the kitchen, our lifestyle, and our survival as a community.

In addition, we currently host nine guests who are formerly homeless. We support each person in the house, which could include accompanying someone to a doctor’s appointment, speaking in Spanish or translating, and cleaning the house to provide a livable space. If we had enough rooms, we would give them to more of our friends in need. Our work does not end at 5pm, as Mr. Compito implies. Rather, our lives are immersed in our work.

Many of our brothers and sisters in Skid Row suffer from addictions or are engulfed in the unfortunate dealings of drugs. We are very much aware of the plight of the poor and homeless. The Catholic Worker practices mercy, not the idea of “justice” supported by the LAPD, court and jail systems—an idea that resulted in the Safer Cities Initiative (SCI), a city- and police-supported effort to “clean up” Skid Row. According to Gary Blasi, UCLA law professor and author of “Policing Our Way Out of Homelessness? The First Year of the Safer Cities Initiative in Skid Row,” in the first seven months (September 2006-April 2007) of the SCI, the LAPD added 50 more police officers to the 0.85 square miles that create Skid Row, and arrested an average of 750 people per month. Arrests for drug offenses, constituting over half of the arrests in the seven month period, were often made by undercover cops pretending to need two rocks of cocaine. Not being a dealer, the suspect offered to buy some with the $20 offered if s/he could share in the purchase. This arrest would be counted as a drug sale, rather than drug use. Only 22 arrests were made for serious violent crimes: homicide (1), robbery (8), aggravated assault (13), rape (0). We call for true justice, that which is not based in fear-mongering, deceit, and skewed priorities.

At the Catholic Worker, we provide resources through our clinic and strong relationship with Clean Needles Now, which assists drug users in disease prevention, and rehabilitation resources. We care deeply for the health of each and every person on Skid Row, and to be charged otherwise only demonstrates ignorance toward our organization.

The pollution of Skid Row is a serious issue, one that could be brought under slight control through the existence of porta-potties and waste cans in the area. On and off the streets, the Los Angeles Catholic Worker prides itself on the cleanliness of the area once we leave. Earlier this year, a number of Hippie Kitchen patrons noted a sewer overflowing with human waste just blocks away from our kitchen. While the sewer was out of our range of vision from the kitchen, a worker called the city and requested an immediate response. Just 45 minutes later, the sewer was under control. We believe that by keeping, at the very least, our corner of Skid Row clean, it inspires a bit of dignity. Yet dignity is a quality consistently raped from the people through poverty, disease, harassment by police, and the continued silence and idleness of our city and state officials.

Mr. Compito believes our work creates “damage.” I would be interested to hear specific situations in which we hurt, oppressed, neglected or in any way caused harm to the suffering in Skid Row. I would also encourage Mr. Compito to compare such, if any, instances with the police brutality that occurs daily in the same area. Jaywalkers are receiving tickets for over $150; and with a monthly General Relief income of $221, many “criminals” are ending up in jail because they are unable to pay citation fee. Men and women are being arrested for having shopping carts and milk crates, items considered by the LAPD to be “stolen property.” A patron on the Hippie Kitchen just last week told me that the private security in Skid Row took his cart with all of his belongings which was left on the sidewalk while he came to the kitchen to get a plate of food. When he heard his things were being confiscated, he ran to the security officers to get his cart. Asking for simply his blanket, he was refused. The security officers said it was no longer his property: it had all been seized.

It is clear Mr. Compito was displeased, as were the city representatives, with our presence on Tuesday. He notes that we had the freedom of speech, but he wanted the freedom to hear. Mr. Compito was more than welcome to hear on Tuesday, but he had to hear more than one side. Sadly, protest is welcome only if it does not steal the spotlight, ask challenging questions, or create tension. Our leaders anticipate silence, neutrality and cooperation, and when members of this democratic society call upon their rights to speak out, it is deemed “rude.”

Rudeness should not even be a topic of discussion regarding our actions on Tuesday. We interrupted a speech. In comparison, Mayor Villaraigosa is working with developers and the police to push out the homeless to create room for revenue. The people are being sacrificed on the altar of capitalism, surrounded by wreaths of handcuffs, taser guns, jaywalking tickets and jail sentences. Too often, we witness the increased victimization of the men and women of Skid Row. We refuse to be silent until the communities in Skid Row are recognized, respected and heard.

Recent Happenings

2008-04-01T22:09:00.000-07:00

My Birthday! On March 20, the CW helped me celebrate my 23rd birthday with pizza, beer, music and (as seen above) dancing.

Stations of the Cross. Each year, the Catholic Worker hosts Stations of the Cross around "places of darkness" downtown such as the prison, courthouse, police stations and more. The ceremony parallels the suffering of Jesus to the suffering of our brothers and sisters in places of war, poverty and neglect. About 100 people showed up to walk and be witness to the men and women who are victim of our society.

Kelly visited! Only here for one night, but we drove around the downtown area, took a tour of the kitchen and had a delicious dinner at Jim's (our local burger/Mexican joint).

For Easter, we hosted a huge brunch enjoyed by many. And the following week, we hosted the annual Seder, a traditional Jewish holiday that celebrates the liberation of the slaves from Egypt. This was the LACW's 35th Seder, and we had an enthusiastic crowd, bouncing music and lots of wine.

Today, Los Angeles Mayor Antonio Villaraigosa held a press conference across the street from our kitchen today announcing the installation of streetlights into Skid Row. Of course, the LACW believes that streetlights and housing are not mutually exclusive... so, the mayor, the city representatives and the press all heard our views. Normally, I wouldn't be supportive of such noise, but when the voices of the homeless are consistently ignored for the money of developers, it seems this is the only method of communication that is effective. Read the LA Times article (accompanied by video), see the KNBC clip, the KTLA clip, and the ABC story.

Enjoy, expect more updates soon (more details, as well).

End Immediacy Immediately!

2008-03-12T22:29:00.001-07:00

A theme that has been rolling around in my mind for the past few weeks is immediacy. I see this in my everyday life: drinking coffee to quickly wake up (and be tolerable), driving home instead of walking/riding a bike/using public transportation, e-mail/internet, throwing away recyclables at the kitchen. Waking up naturally, walking home, sending my letters via USPS, and making trips to the recycling center would all take time for which I seemingly do not have. The catch is that I do, in fact, have that time; so the question becomes: Do I have the motivation?

But the types of immediacy I have been contemplating are on a grander scale. In terms of capitalism, consumerism, materialism, war, and political "reform," long-term planning is not a priority (unless it has to do with money). For example, instant gratification is found at WAL*MART and McDonalds, because what we want is in front of us for a low price. Even though we know that WAL*MART has horrible employment practices and sells goods made by our exploited brothers and sisters overseas, Americans continue to buy. Even though we know McDonald's victimizes the environment and our health, Americans continue to buy.

And we continue to support immediacy in our politics and foreign affairs. The war in Iraq will bring in its fifth year on March 20 (I might forget that if the war hadn't started on my 18th birthday). Is our idea of peace in the context of immediacy? Is peace, to US citizens and our leaders, simply the absence of violence, obtained by killing/bombing/paralyzing the enemy to prevent retaliation? It seems this is our idea of peace, reached with speed. Why else would we sit by and allow the incessant bombing of innocents half a world away?

Dearest to my heart at this moment in my life, however, is the immediacy in which the homeless are mistreated. Lofts, high rises, apartments, condos, and general gentrification is rampant, to say the least, in Skid Row (known to builders/lofters/city council as "central city east"). Our brothers and sisters on the streets are pushed out, away from services, to make room for those who can afford, at the end of 2007, a "median price of $410,000". Arrests, police harassment, and encouragement from Cardinal Mahoney to stop sidewalk giveaways are mutating Skid Row into an even more unwelcoming and inhabitable area. All for economic growth. All for immediate profit.

Meanwhile, I am participating in a movement that recognizes the inability to achieve immediate results. The peace movement is a lifelong struggle that bears little fruit only if we hold the same standards of the businesses and politicians. We peaceniks receive little physical reward of years of hard work; we do not gain tremendous financial profit; we are not internationally renowned; we have no alliances with powerful organizations and groups such as the armed forces, city planners, and CEO's. Instead, we trudge on through the quagmire of violence and try to resurrect hope. It is a thankless job.

But even in these past months, I have discovered my own nonviolent self. I am nowhere near completely accepting nonviolence as my whole self as my language and attitude still exhibit violence and negativity. Yet, I know that I am capable of being peaceful; and even more, I know that each person is capable of being good. We all have to be willing to leave behind the temptation of immediacy. We must accept the bondage of patience, trust in mercy, and dedicate ourselves to others. The question is not if we can do this, rather when. When will we be motivated to save our world?

Got to Pray

2008-02-21T13:00:00.000-08:00

MC Hammer came out with a "song" in 1990 telling anyone who would listen: "We need to pray/just to make it today." The Los Angeles Catholic Worker, although founded almost two decades before the song hit the charts, shares similar sentiments. We pray everyday, and often times more than once. We also have a two hour Bible study each Wednesday, followed by an evening liturgy service. If you're in LA, come by and visit to experience it!

Even though I have gone through youth groups, Sunday school, confirmation, retreats, and many other Catholic rituals, praying has never been my strong suit. But having it integrated into community life has helped me to appreciate the words that we recite in unison. The words have new meanings each day and I am surprised by my consistent desire to be centered when the community shares the short moments of prayer. The time is precious reflection we have each day.

The prayers below are the ones we use most often. Enjoy!

I should like a great lake of finest ale, for the King of Kings
I should like a table of the choicest food, for the family of heaven.
Let the ale be made from the fruits of faith, and the food be forgiving love.
I should welcome the poor to my feast, for they are God’s children.
I should welcome the sick to my feast, for they are God’s joy.
Let the poor sit with Jesus at the highest place, and the sick dance with the angels
God bless the poor, God bless the sick, and bless our human race.
God bless our food, God bless our drink, all homes, O God, embrace.
--St. Bridget of Kildare

Oh, God, when I have food, help me to remember the hungry.
When I have work, help me to remember the jobless.
When I am without pain, help me to remember those who suffer.
And in remembering, help me to destroy my complacency and bestir my compassion.
Make me concerned enough to help, by word and deed,
those who cry out for what we take for granted.
--Samuel Pugh

You will find that charity is a heavy burden to carry,
heavier than the bowl of soup and the full basket.
But you will keep your gentleness and your smile.
It is not enough to give bread and soup. This the rich can do.
You are the servant of the poor, always smiling and always good humored.
They are your masters, terribly sensitive and exacting masters you will soon see.
The uglier and dirtier they will be, the more unjust and insulting,
the more love you must give them.
It is for your love alone that the poor will forgive you,
the bread you give them.
--St. Vincent de Paul

My Lord God, I have no idea where I am going.
I do not see the road ahead of me.
I cannot know for certain where it will end.
Nor do I really know myself,
and the fact that I think I am following your will does not mean that I am actually doing so.
But I believe that the desire to please you does in fact please you.
And I hope that I have that desire in all that I am doing.
I hope that I will never do anything apart from that desire.
And I know that if I do this you will lead me by the right road,
though I may know nothing about it.
Therefore I will trust you always,
though I may seem to be lost and in the shadow of death.
I will not fear, for you are ever with me,
and you will never leave me to face my perils alone.
--Thomas Merton

Why Worry?

2008-01-31T23:21:00.000-08:00

I got out of the house a little tonight. Saw For the Bible Tells Me So, a documentary about homosexuality and the Bible. Very interesting. Something I recommend for everyone to see, no matter your spiritual and sexual orientations.

Since the movie was played in Pasadena, I called up Mariah, a dear friend, Pasadena resident and LACW '07 Summer Intern. She was working at a cute little coffee shop, and she gave me a delicious soy Mexican chocolate latte (which explains why I am writing this blog entry at 11:30pm).

During our conversation, Mariah mentioned worrying about change and how that worry is more stressful than the change itself. I wanted to start crying. I reached out for Mariah's hand and said, "You have no idea how much that helps me."

I have been blessed enough to be considered for a position with the Holy Cross Associates, a post-grad service program via the Holy Cross Order (i.e.: Nortre Dame, and University of Portland--my alma mater). The placement for this particular program is Santiago, Chile, for a period of 18 months. While details are slowly trickling in, and there are no concrete plans, I am mentally preparing myself for some major changes within this year.

However, along with the preparation comes doubt, fear, anxiety. This is all very similar to my experience during my last two months in Portland this past summer. Looking toward my move to Los Angeles, I found myself distant from close friends, overanalyzing my future, and in constant stress. Instead of embracing the change and taking full advantage of my time and people in Portland, I was focused on the aspects of my life that were out of my control. And I find myself thinking the same things all over again today.

I have always been a control freak. Over a decade has passed, but my family still makes fun of me for "helping" my brothers open gifts on birthdays, Christmas, etc. Our videocamera captured many occassions which ended with my hands around the present and my pudgy face expressing more surprise and glee than the brother who actually received the gift.

Since moving from Portland, I have made a conscious effort for the very first time in my life to let go of control and let life take its own pace. I have forced myself to live day-to-day, or at least try. It has been a difficult transition, but a fruitful one. And I have noticed little changes, ones most likely only noticable to myself.

Mariah's unintentional advice could not have come at a better time. I was ready to, emotionally and mentally, start saying goodbye to the Catholic Worker, even though I might not be leaving until as late as August. I was ready to be at a plateau, seeking no further responsibilities and not making attempts to fulfill a role outside the Worker. But she reminded me of the pain I put myself through waiting for my transition to come when I was in Portland. It was wasted time.

So while I have no idea what will happen to me from here on out, I have to take deep breaths and accept my inadequacy to control the universe. I have to appreciate that I am here in LA, doing incredible work with dedicated and spirited people. I have to remember that so far, my life has been extremely blessed and I have had little control over it.

SOAW Comes to LA!

2008-01-17T10:39:00.000-08:00

Getting back to work from a vacation is a tough, and often swift, transition. Returning to Los Angeles from a 26 hour train ride on New Year's Day, I found myself signed up for all the early shifts for the week and some additional resposibilities for the next days. While I was a bit overwhelmed by this, I had no idea that the duties with the Catholic Worker would be the easy part of my week.

In December, Margaret had attended a planning meeting for the SOA Watch Los Angeles chapter. It had been decided by local organizers and activists to bring the SOAW vigil to Los Angeles, and Margaret was delegated the intimidating task of constructing the puppets. The conversation, according to Margaret, was something along the lines of...

Activists/Organizers: We need to have some puppets at this rally! Who has experience with puppets?

Margaret: Well, I've helped people make them once.

Activists/Organizers: Great! You can be in charge! Next item...

The rally was set for Saturday, January 12. When Margaret and I returned from our respective vacations home, we realized that there were 10 days for two large (approximately 8'x4') puppet heads, two pairs of hands, and more. Margaret seemed to have the project, timeline and her stress under control, so I gladly followed her lead in hopes of being more help than a burden.

We started on the last Friday of the school's winter break, meeting at Sacred Heart, a local all-girls high school. Surprisingly, more than 10 girls showed up. We worked through the weekend and entire following week to prepare the larger-than-life faces and supporting pieces.

The two faces were made to represent Archbishop Oscar Romero of El Salvador and Rufina Amaya. Archbishop Romero was a significant icon in El Salvador against the corrupt government and a voice for his people. He was assassinated in 1980 by SOA graduates. Rufina was the only survivor of the El Mozote massacre in 1981. The massacre, in the country of El Salvador, was carried out by SOA graduates, and the death toll exceeded 800. She passed away in 2007, and her courage and message of hope were celebrated this year in the national SOA Watch vigil in Georgia.

Margaret and I quickly found ourselves waist deep in hours of work each day, spending more time with teenagers than we ever anticipated, and flying by the seat of our wheat paste-coated pants. Each day, each task, we looked at what we needed to do and tried to quelch the growing sense of anxiety. But we were saved by many generous people:

--The students of Sacred Heart High School: The young women sacrificed their last days of winter vacation, lunch hours, and even talked their way out of some classes their first week back to come paint, glue, tape, draw, cut, and transport these puppets. Not only were they excited about the puppets, but they were so passionate about the SOAW movement that they affected Fr. Roy Bourgeois, the founder of the movement. They were a workforce and consistent stream of energy.

--The staff of Sacred Heart High School: Without their permission to use their facilities to create and store our more than 20 puppets, Margaret and I would have been forced to push them into some random place at the Catholic Worker. Also hosted at the school was the press conference for the event and two days of Fr. Roy's presence. The staff welcomed so warmly the involvement of the activists and students.

--Arnie (above: far right): Our drum guru drove up from San Diego just days before the rally to assemble the equipment for the drum corps. His sarcasm, musicality and willingness to help us out was refreshing. His coordination of the drum corps brought dance, and a young, bright spirit to the performance. After the rally was finished, he even waited with Margaret and me in the park for our ride home. How sweet!

--Beth (above: bottom left) and Jake (below): Two superb puppetistas who took time out of their busy schedules to mentor Margaret and I in the art of puppet-making. Beth came our second day to help form the heads of Rufina and Oscar, which sounds like a small task; but without her knowledge and handy staple gun, Margaret and I would have resorted to copious amounts of duct tape. And when I say "copious," I mean more than the 4 rolls we went through.

Jake came to us from New Haven for the last 3 days of preparation. He restored our positive energy about the project by exhibiting his own excitement. Not only did he teach us how to construct and walk on stilts, but he reassured us that the work we had done was impressive for novices. He also secured the larger puppets and led the rehearsal session of the performance on Saturday.

--Patricia (above: far right): She let us take over her classroom, which is no overstatement. Mid-way through our 9-day project, the back half of her room was rendered useless and transformed into a cardboard jungle hiding tools, tape, cloth and miscellaneous puppet accessories. Patricia is also an inspiration to her students. During her religion classes, she encourages the girls to talk about social justice issues, highlights the importance of prayer supported by action, and teaches out of books she chooses (her qualifications for a good religion book: must mention Dorothy Day and Oscar Romero). Each year, she leads a small group of Sacred Heart students to the SOAW rally in Georgia.

--Margaret: The brave soul who took on this project with little experience and less sleep. She spent hours researching the necessary steps for proper construction, and even more time reflecting on how to respectfully bring to LA the emotions, message and performance of the SOAW in Georgia. Margaret put her complete energy into this project, and the final result mirrored her leadership, enthusiasm and passion for the SOAW.

After facing problems ranging from paint and paste stains to a useless staple gun to a collapsing Oscar Romero, we completed the two heads, their accompanying pairs of hands, three birds of death, a helicopter, and other painted cardboard pieces to represent village life. In addition, we constructed four pairs of stilts and learned to walk on them. Wow.

Saturday came, and Jake led the rehearsal. The village puppets come in, followed by the drum corps. Then, the birds of death fly in, along with the helicopter and attack the villages.

The villages are injured and fall to the power of the enemy.

Rufina and Oscar enter, bringing with them their spirit and message, to defeat the evil forces and ressurect the villages.

After this performance, Jake instructed everyone to come together to begin dancing and celebrating. "Only one rule!" he shouted. "You need to grab someone's hand and bring them in the dance with you." Margaret and I looked at one another with tears streaming down our faces. The long days and short nights, the paint that wouldn't scrub off of our fingers, the soreness from squatting, lifting, crouching and bending, and the distant feeling of hopelessness were forgotten during the rehearsal. All we saw was our work physically actualized.

The performance was beautiful. The day was clear, and the only reason we stopped the celebration was because the park was going to close for the night. For the first SOAW rally in Los Angeles, it was a success. And now, almost a week after the rally, I am still filled with the amazement I had that afternoon.

You Want the Truth?

2007-12-10T20:15:00.000-08:00

In just over a week, I will be on my way to Eugene, Oregon, to spend Christmas with my family! I am so excited to see everyone, but am trying to prepare myself. I know what lies waiting for me in Eugene... the interrogation.

Family, friends, church community... they will all want to know what I have been doing for the past 5 months, and there's really no short and/or safe answer to that question. I walk a fine line in giving some detail but not enough to beg more questions (i.e.: "What do you mean by..." or "Is that really safe?"). It's even harder to make the work I do sound appealing to all persons, all ideologies, all ages; therefore, I will be faced with reactions ranging from kind smiles to rolling eyes. And my response to all must be, truthfully, how much I love the work I'm doing. I already have my pre-recorded response ready for the shoot-the-breeze conversations I'll have where people don't really want to know all the details.

While this will be slightly exhausting, I am excited to see my family, and I am looking forward to sharing my experiences and stories with people. I have worked so hard these past 5 months and the work and lifestyle has pushed my limits physically and emotionally.

I recently realized that I have been welcomed in fully to the community. I started off my living in the back house, a separate 5-bedroom house on the LACW property, and doing the basic work with no extra responsibility or accountability. About a month into my stay, I moved into the main house to be closer the bulk of the community, and then I started taking on more responsibilities: house evenings, Wednesday liturgy musician, line watching, spending the night at the kitchen, driving (that's a new one!). Now, I am going to the Wednesday afternoon meetings for the core community. It's the LACW way of saying, "yea, you're one of us now."

This all did not come without serious doses of doubt, lack of self confidence, frustration, and confusion. The community does not have the time to walk me through, holding my hand in everything that I do. There is no regular positive reinforcement, and little praise. Quite honestly, it was very hard for the first two months. I worked as hard as I could to show that I was committed to the cause of the Catholic Worker. I kept my ears open desperately for words of encouragement, but they rarely came, and when they did, they were dismissible. Was everyone so busy that they did not have time to notice me?

But as I was handed more responsibility, I slowly began to understand that this was the community's way of recognizing that I am trustworthy, hard-working, and valuable to the LACW. There have been few times when people from the house have told me straight out that they are happy I am here, and I can count the instances on one hand; yet each time had a special meaning for me, and I cherish those moments.

I am not saying that the LACW is right or wrong in their ways of introducing new community members. For me, it has been a good learning experience. Painful and difficult, yes; in the meantime, the hands-off method has forced me to become more self-reliant and have more confidence in my abilities.

The past five months have not been what I had expected. The work we do is in no way glamorous. The community life is not smiley and happy all day long. We can be a sweaty, drowsy, grumpy, hungry, impatient and stressed bunch of people--but isn't that the point of this whole thing? To do this all together, to help each other through each day, and to do good work. It's not supposed to be glamorous, smiley and happy... but that's easier to accept when you say it. It's a little bit more difficult when you live it.

Hopefully I will survive the next 10 days so I can go home, share my stories, relax, and return to the work I have committed myself to... Phew. What a life.

Caring for Our Brothers and Sisters

2007-12-01T17:44:00.000-08:00

"Sam," a friend from the Hippie Kitchen, and I met during the summer over a uniquely deep conversation about the state of our world. I had sat down in the garden to enjoy my beans and salad, and we just started chatting. Ever since, when Sam eats at the Kitchen, we share lunch together and he updates me on his life. During the past few months, Sam has been struggling with getting housing, food stamps, and government aid. He was been told numerous times that he is just one interview away from his own place, but he was turned down countless times, and his hope was wearing thin.

But Sam is not one to sit by and be screwed by the system. He is an educated man, and is blessed enough to have friends and resources to help him with necessary paperwork--not all people on Skid Row have connections, awareness or capabilities to handle such processes and procedures. And a few weeks ago, Sam developed a plan. "I'm going to be a janitor, Allison," he said with pride and glee. "I'm going to be a janitor so I can start working in the schools, and then I'm going to be a substitute teacher."

Last week, Sam and I shared lunch as we often do, and I asked in my routine manner how he was doing. Sam leaned in, opened his hands in a burst next to his smiling face and said, "It's all happening." He signed up for his janitor test and background check, and registered to take the CBEST test, a prerequisite for all teachers. To top it all off, he finally received his approval for SSI.

And just this Thursday, I saw Sam at the Kitchen. He could hardly hold back all the good news he had for me. I was line watching at the time, and he came back three times to find me and ask when I was going to stop and eat. "I need to talk to you, Allison!" I found a substitute, quickly grabbed a plate of food, and sat down with Sam. I barely had time to start the "how's it going?" routine before he pulled out a manila folder full of papers. Jittered with excitement, Sam began to unload all of the wonderful things that had happened in the past week. He had just received his approval to begin his janitorial classes so he could qualify for a job that would pay $14 per hour and provide him with full benefits. On top of that, he got notice that he is eligible for Section 8 which would pay for a bulk of his rent and utilities. "You thought that was all?" he exclaimed as he pulled more papers out of his manila folder. "Look at this!" He handed me his card for food stamps, his receipt from his latest check from his low-paying part-time job, and his coupon stating SRO Housing eligibility.

I was blown away. Sam had worked and waited for all of this, and everything he needed came to him in one week. As he put the papers away, muttering something about dying if he lost them, he had a mixed expression of exhaustion and fulfillment. He turned back to me and laughed, "Well I'm glad this all happened because if it didn't, I was going to rob a bank." I gave him a look begging for an explanation, hoping that he was kidding. "Yea, I seriously considered it," he continued. "I was going to just pass a note. Not use a gun or anything. They stick you in jail for so much longer if you have a weapon on you. No, I'd just pass a note and say that 'that person by the door' would shoot everyone if they didn't give me all their large bills. You know that some tellers have more large bills than others? Anyway, it wouldn't be violent, no one would have to know, and the guy by the door would just be some regular that I wouldn't even have to talk to. No one would have to talk to him. It kinda works out, huh?"

I could feel my body growing cold with fear in response to his plan. Rob a bank? Is this the true desperation these men and women have reached? They are so completely out of options and out of hope that they would risk their freedom to get some money? And then it occurred to me that Sam is one of the very fortunate people on the Row. He has a place to stay, even if he is not fond of his step-mother. He has a part-time job rather than no job at all. He is not addicted to drugs or alcohol. He is educated. Still, despite all of this, he struggled to qualify for employment, housing, Section 8, food stamps, and SSI. What does this mean for the people who are sleeping on the street, jobless and poorly educated? If Sam fought his way to these services that should be so readily available, how hard would others have to fight?

Sam waited for months to hear back about housing, food stamps, SSI and Section 8; but he could manage to wait. So many people cannot manage to wait like Sam, and desperation grows strongly and quickly. Our society so quickly demonizes criminals, addicts and the homeless because we believe they are capable of achieving the "American Dream" if they only work at it; their failure is their own fault, their poverty is proof of laziness, and their addiction is proof of weakness. But if these people are not surrounded by a loving community or blessed with an education, it is in fact the weakness of our culture that is shown--not that of the individual.

The upcoming weeks will be very joyful for Sam, and I hope that I am able to share in the celebration with him. But the upcoming weeks will be very sorrowful for others as they continue to be homeless during the coldest part of the year, which ironically coincides with "The Season of Giving," "The Holiday Season," "The Most Wonderful Time of the Year," etc.

I encourage all of you, if you are not already involved with service, to volunteer with your local hospitality kitchen, county food storage and distributor, St. Vincent dePaul, and other organizations. And I challenge you to continue the "Season of Giving" so it no longer becomes just a season, but a mindset. Men and women around the country need us, and it is our responsibility to care for our brothers and sisters.

Safe, Un-arrested, and Full

2007-11-23T12:52:00.000-08:00

(Fr. Roy Bourgeois, founder of School of the Americas Watch movement, and me at Saturday rally outside Fort Benning.)

(One of the three fences protecting Fort Benning... Saturday, the day before the procession, as the military police watch over the crowds.)

(Margaret as part of the drumming circle on Saturday after the rally.)

(Ignatian Teach-In... thousands of students and young adults gathered to learn from and teach each other about the SOA, the Iraq War, poverty and justice.)

(Beginning of the procession on Sunday... these are participants of a die-in that took place in front of the gates.)

Margaret and I returned on Monday from our cross-country trip to close the School of Americas. It's difficult to describe every demonstration, emotion and experience of the weekend, so please allow the photos to explain some for me.

We stayed at the Open Door Community in Atlanta for three nights during our visit. This incredible community is a "Protestant arm" of the Catholic Worker movement. The ODC serves breakfasts and lunches out of their own home, inviting in men and women from the streets to eat in a warm and comfortable kitchen. They also provide showers weekly to their patrons, as well as clothing and medicine that they might need. The Atlanta community welcomed us so warmly and fed us so well that it was difficult to return to Los Angeles.

During the weekend at SOA, Margaret and I trained for the role of "Peacemakers." Essentially, the Peacemakers are the SOA Watch version of a line watcher: we were responsible for squelching conflict, and maintaining the pacifist atmosphere of the weekend. There were about 36 of us to cover a crowd of 25,000; yet there were no serious conflicts that needed to be addressed. How incredible that thousands of people can gather together and keep to a vow of non-violence!

All weekend, music was everywhere--in the puppetista demonstrations, on stage in front of the Fort, at the Catholic mass, while walking down the street, and at concerts at the local hotels. The movement would not have been the same without the beautiful songs accompanying it.

Most of all, I was struck by the reality of this school. I was able to watch people cross by the fence and lay crosses, flowers, banners and other memorabilia; and during that time a woman passed through, barely able to walk because she was so grief-stricken. She was not mourning over strangers, as many of us were. She was mourning over five of her close relatives that had been "disappeared" in Argentina by a military controlled by SOA-taught soldiers. Her life, her family, her reality were destroyed in part (if not completely) because of the teachings of the SOA.

I talked with a friend of mine before I left for the SOA, and he asked if it was even an issue anymore. This school and the ideology it represents is why there are millions of homeless, less money towards education, deteriorating quality of life in some Latin American countries, conflict around the world, and the rampant spread of the use of torture. This school is not only still an "issue," but it is a cancer of which we must rid ourselves before it takes control and kills our neighbors and ourselves.

Yesterday, we celebrated Thanksgiving as a community, inviting over 50 people to our house to share an afternoon meal. The turn-out was great, and there was so much food! (13 turkeys, 10 gallons of stuffing, gallons of mashed potatoes, many cakes, more pies, and all the fixings!) It was a beautiful day, and while I couldn't be with my family on Thanksgiving, I felt that I had found a very close second.

Back to Benning

2007-11-13T21:49:00.000-08:00

Tomorrow Margaret and I head off to the SOA Watch via Atlanta, where we'll be staying with the ever-so-kind Open Door Community for a few days before heading down to Columbus to peacefully vigil in front of the School of the Americas/Western Hemisphere Institute for Security Cooperation.

If you have no idea or little background with the SOA Watch, visit the link to the left. Feel free also to look at my blog from last year (or just the pictures). Also, there is a caravan traveling from San Francisco to Columbus, Georgia. Their blog is also up and running, and definitely worth at least a peek.

Keep us in your prayers, but especially for those whom we are standing in witness: the victims of torture, violence and hate; the populations whose homes have been destroyed through the teachings of the School of Americas; those who still live with the traumatic physical and emotional effects of the acts of war the SOA education helped to wage.

Thank you all for your support!

Age Is Just a Number... Right?

2007-11-08T19:19:00.000-08:00

I am one of three 20-somethings in the Catholic Worker community of 21 people. The average age of the volunteers/community members living at the house is 43.1 years. This is not said with disdain by any means. Living with people who are older than me and dedicated to, what I believe to be, an amazing movement gives me hope for my continued dedication to the issues of homelessness, war and violence.

While we are connected by our beliefs and passions, the age gap does factor in to the challenges of living in community. Sometimes, in the minds of older community members, the young person is equal to the person with the most energy to spare. I'd like to point out that this assumption isn't really true...if any of you have met Faustino, you will understand my point.

At other points, the "we've been doing this for longer than you've been on this planet" spat, or the "my life experience is double yours" defensive rears its ugly head--most often, they are raised in joking manners.

And being a single young woman at the Catholic Worker isn't always that great either. Each young man who passes through is always seen, again in the eyes of the older community members, as a potential match for poor, single, lonely Allison. While most of this is in jest, it's also strongly persistent. I have actually said, "I'm not as desperate as you think I am," to a few people.

The technology gap also accompanies the age gap. I am helping one of the guests get comfortable with cutting, copying and pasting on the computer. Jeff, now in his sixties, is just hopping on the Internet and signed up for his first e-mail address a few weeks ago. Catherine, in her seventies, is learning to "Google" search. All three are amazed by the vastness of the Internet and continually confused by applications, programs, websites and capabilities outside their normal Internet/e-mail routines.

Despite the age difference between me and the majority of the community, I have found it quite easy to begin conversations, build relationships and enjoy time spent with everyone. I can't imagine having an experience like this later in my life, so I am embracing this gap as just another unique quality to the life at the Catholic Worker.

In other news, Margaret and I are leaving for the SOA Watch next Wednesday (November 14) for five days. We will be staying with our sister community in Atlanta, Georgia, before heading down to Columbus, Georgia, to participate in a weekend of vigiling, prayer and peaceful protest. Please keep us in your prayers, and I look forward to sharing my experiences (and photos!) when I get back!

Serenity Prayer

2007-10-25T18:12:00.000-07:00

God, grant me

The serenity to accept the things
I cannot change,

The courage to change the things
I can,

And the wisdom
to know
the difference.

Having been in the LACW community for three months now, I have a deeper appreciation for this prayer. Serenity, courage and wisdom are three qualities I find myself challenged by and craving on a daily basis.

Serenity is the acknowledgement that peace signs, waves, and smiles do not take back the middle finger from the passerby; but the LACW is persistent in our peaceful nonviolence despite the middle fingers (real and metaphoric) that we cannot change. To be nonviolent is to spread peace and serenity during a time of conflict, not to avoid conflict through silence. Silence demonstrates neutrality and can too easily be condemned as apathy.

Our persistence to end apathy is an expression of our courage to change our world. The Catholic Worker is a foundation for an alternative lifestyle that screams out for the realization of God's equal and just kindom. Works of mercy--including feeding the poor, sheltering the homeless, visiting the imprisoned, and clothing the naked--are the soul of our faith-acted-out. I have witnessed and experienced the simple fruits of these actions, and I feel that personally my journey toward pacifism has been greatly aided by my time with the Catholic Worker.

As a community dedicated to peace, the need to change our world and the chosen avenues of change bring constant questioning. Do we serve the individual who comes as we are leaving the kitchen? Risk arrest to be of witness and in solidarity? Change our diet to match our values? Speak to others about our thoughts and experiences despite their opposition? How do we embody our cause?

Attention to these questions spurs wisdom. While preparing to act in the name of peace and justice, one must be aware of the past and present violations of peace, as well as hopes for future peace. The past is concrete as are its current effects. Presently, we must act with courage to put our mark on our future.

Without serenity, courage and wisdom, our actions are passive, negligent and ignorant.

The Role of Music

2007-10-15T12:08:00.000-07:00

Lately, I have realized that I am immersed in music. Below are a few examples of the joy we receive during the week because of sweet song that graces the LACW.

At the Kitchen, we do not listen to the radio because of past conflict over stations, volume, etc. Yet, our work days are still filled with music. Arnal, a guest at the house and dishwasher extraordinaire at the Kitchen, is in constant song. He has one on his tongue most of the time, and if he isn't singing then he is soon reminded of a song. His repertoire ranges from Stevie Wonder to the Dreamgirls soundtrack to 50 Cent. Songs usually are accompanied by a little groove: a head bob, a step here and there, snapping or clapping. Arnal is always encouraging to those who join in either dance or song with him and will ask that you "get into it!" A day at the Kitchen is simply incomplete without the voice of Arnal.

The community members also get into music at the house. Each Wednesday evening we host a liturgy which is open to all who wish to come. Faustino and Margaret play guitar, Clare and Martha sing, and I play piano for liturgy... and we have fun. Last week was especially energetic, with Jeff shouting sporadically, "Yeah! Alright!" during the songs.

After the liturgy, we invite people to stay for dinner which inevitably keeps us washing more dishes than a usual LACW meal. However, Margaret and I manage to keep the situation quite entertaining. Washing dishes in the kitchen spills over into a dance party (which keeps us washing dishes longer than is necessary). Community members will come in to give us more dishes and laugh at us, hopefully with a tone of endearment rather than embarrassment for us. I have seen how the energy we have in the kitchen on Wednesday nights can build up a little more energy and happiness at the end of the day.

During our free time at the house, Margaret and I have gotten into the habit of pulling out some music and playing for hours (literally). Currently, we're working on a great book of songs which include pieces from the Eagles, Rolling Stones, The Band, and many more. When we are playing more traditional pieces, Clare will mosey toward us and join in singing. Those moments are some of my favorites: when we can gather spontaneously for music.

And just yesterday we hosted a Hospitality Day at the house in which guys from the Row are invited to come to the LACW house for breakfast and lunch, some pleasant company and lots of relaxation. I spent most of the time at the piano playing alongside upwards of three guitarists. We kept coming up with songs, surfing through the music that is scattered around the piano and just listening to songs memorized by others. We played some songs from the 60s, and a few of the men started talking about remembering that song when they were kids and shared stories about that time of their lives.

I have always felt that music is a powerful force, but when it is added to community, music becomes more of a spirit. Music spreads happiness, revives memories, infects listeners with the urge to dance, and invites singing on a large scale. I am happy to be a part of a community that welcomes that spirit so openly.

Eight Months More

2007-10-07T16:08:00.000-07:00

Earlier this week, I told the LACW I would like to stay until June. Before this week, I had planned to stay until December and to then begin applying for jobs and/or graduate school; however, I noticed the responsibilities I have at the kitchen, the relationships I have been forming with volunteers and community members, and my complete joy in working in disgusting, smoggy, hot LA. I could not (and still cannot) imagine myself being anywhere else in the upcoming months besides with the LACW.

There have been so many stages I have been through just to get to this point. I went through a job-hunting stage that lasted most of Spring Semester and into June. Then I went through a can't-leave-Portland stage that resulted in many late nights of conversation with friends, personal reflection and the obligatory emotional breakdown. Then, I went on a road trip. And while that doesn't seem like a stage, it gave me time to come to grips with the fact that I was leaving my home state of 22 years. Throughout all these stages, the LACW was in my mind as a back up plan (more accurately, an "if no one wants to hire me, and there is absolutely nothing else I can do short of moving in with my parents, I'll move to the LACW" plan). I never really thought I would end up here.

I am excited about the upcoming months. It is a long time for a recent college grad who had a hard time looking even a few weeks into her future when she first arrived; but this time is full of time to get to know the guys on the Row, learn the accordion, speak more Spanish, get the hang of the public transportation system, reflect on what it is I want to do as a career, polish my line-watching skills, and embrace community living.

Right now, I am living my once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. I am blessed enough to have a family that is supportive, even if they wouldn't make this same choice for me. While I am faced with challenges everyday, I do my best to face them directly so to make my experience here fruitful and positive. And I will continue to do so as long as I am here.

Everyone Wants a Piece of the Hippie Kitchen

2007-10-02T20:16:00.000-07:00

Recently, the Hippie Kitchen was named LA's best place to volunteer by Los Angeles Magazine. Resulting from this truly great recognition and publicity, there have been many more people calling to inquire about volunteering with us.

On Friday, we received two unique phone calls. The first was from MTV. They are filming a reality show about a teen skateboard star. The producers want him to participate in some sort of service work. Jeff took the call and said that, of course, we would love to have him and the crew come by the kitchen... just leave the cameras at home. The producers seemed miffed that they could not film their teen giving back to his city, but Jeff said, "I guess that's the difference between charity and service."

That same day, a representative from the Dr. Phil show called wanting to film in the garden for a segment on homelessness. Faustino explained that we do not allow filming within the garden or in the kitchen while it is open. The Dr. Phil rep tried to reassure Faustino that our patrons would be portrayed in a positive light. Faustino went into a little more detail behind our "no filming" policy. As he explained it to me, as well, he noted that, "The guys at the kitchen are dirty, down on their luck, probably in the worst part of their lives. You want to shove a camera in their face? How do you think they're going to respond to that?"

Today, I answered the phone and spoke with a woman from MTV (again!) who is in charge of setting up dates on an MTV dating show for twenty-somethings. She said that the couple meets for the first time on her dime, and she is supposed to make them interact in a fun and unique way. Then, I heard the tinge of guilt: "I'd really like the date to involve service. I'd feel a little redemption if I could set up a date that gave something back." When she continued to brainstorm ways the couple could help in the kitchen, I wanted to say, "I'm sorry, but when we serve the poor, we do it for the poor. Our kitchen is not used as a stage for publicity, to show off our generosity, or to foster budding romances. But we would love for you to come in on a Saturday and volunteer!" Instead, I just said that we don't allow filming on the property.

I completely understand the desire to film within the Hippie Kitchen. We are an oasis. The guys are comfortable in the garden. There are a lot of guys who know each other and know the volunteers. It's true human interaction. And not allowing filming in the garden preserves that genuineness. It is flattering, though, that so many people think of us, and that the award from Los Angeles Magazine has delivered so much positive response.

So, MTV, Dr. Phil, Oprah, CNN, whoever... if you're reading this: No, you cannot film in our garden. But please take time out of your schedule to volunteer with us. Don't do it for the cameras. Do it for the men and women on the Row.

Community Living

2007-09-20T15:25:00.001-07:00

TRADITION OR CATHOLIC ACTION

by Peter Maurin

The central act of devotional life

in the Catholic Church

is the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass.

The Sacrifice of the Mass

is the unbloody repetition

of the Sacrifice of the Cross.

On the Cross at Calvary

Christ gave us His life to redeem the world.

The life of Christ was a life of sacrifice.

The life of a Christian must be

a life of sacrifice.

We cannot imitate the sacrifice of Christ

on Calvary

by trying to get all we can.

We can only imitate the sacrifice of Christ

on Calvary

by trying to give all we can.

I found this piece in The Green Revolution: Easy Essays on Catholic Radicalism by Peter Maurin, a man known for his action alongside Dorothy Day in the creation of the Catholic Worker Movement. Maurin focused his efforts on Houses of Hospitality, believing that all men and women have the right to shelter and community, but more so that the Catholic faith called its followers to provide this care to one another.

Meeting this calling has not been very easy. The LACW's home is one of hospitality, hosting guests with different needs, backgrounds, vices and destinies. Adding the guests' great diversity to the already unique conglomerate of community members is a recipe for an alternative lifestyle. To put it simply: there is no "average" day.

For me, growing up with two younger brothers was a challenge. When I was 19, being a neighbor to three twenty-somethings in the middle of the Willamette National Forest was a challenge. In college, living with my peers was a challenge. But none of these living situations can match the daily trials of living in community with the Los Angeles Catholic Worker.

This is not said with the intention of putting down those who live at the house, but simply to shed light on the compromises we must make to provide shelter, food and comfort (to a certain level). It is a devotional lifestyle to live in community. One shower to fifteen or more people, a donated van that came without an engine, and $15 per week are examples of the tangible sacrifices; but more outstanding are the emotional sacrifices. Privacy and silence have their limits. Witnessing the struggles of housemates, hanging on (or saying goodbye) to that last bit of patience and understanding, and exposure to new and different mindsets are more serious examples of the challenges we often face as individuals in a community.

Maurin understood Houses of Hospitality are truly Houses of Sacrifice, but also Houses of Christ. As a community, we greet each new day understanding the possibilities that our buttons will be pushed, our goals will just be out of reach, a sweaty day will go uncleaned, and that frustration rather than joy will rule the day. What keeps us going is knowing that despite these possibilities, these obstables, we are doing Christ's work to let each guest's humanity shine. We are trying to foster love. We are trying to actualize Christ's sacrifice. We are trying to give all we can.

To celebrate our efforts, we are venturing to a Sister House Retreat this weekend. We will share lots of food, lots of drink, and lots of laughter. This is a highlight of the LACW year, and I'm glad I'm able to join this year. So please keep us in your prayers for safe travels, blessed work, and continued energy.

LA Story

2007-09-15T20:03:00.000-07:00

Day by day, Los Angeles presents itself with new challenges and more surprises. The following stories are some examples...

The Photographer

Last Friday, as all Fridays, I vigiled against the war with the Catholic Worker outside a cluster of federal buildings. A man came up to Margaret, Sophie and I and took our picture. Turning his digital camera away from us, the passerby sneered, "I'm going to send this picture to my son in Iraq. He's going to blow it up to a poster and they'll use it for target practice."

As the man in his clean grey suit marched away, we stood in woeful silence. I was on the verge of anxious laughter while trying to ignore the all-consuming pit in my chest. Whether the man was sincere was not the main concern. The hateful words that lingered on the street corner, the mentality behind the action, and the underlying meaning of the threat were of more concern.

That day, Sophie, Margaret and I held signs that read, "BRING THE TROOPS HOME ALIVE!" "NOT ONE MORE BODY FOR WAR," and "STOP U.S. WAR IN IRAQ." Not surprisingly, the man silently walked by Catherine and her sign noting more than 3700 dead U.S. soldiers. He said nothing to the older couple just feet away. He instead turned his focus toward the young adults and gave us a piece of his mind with a voice full of anger and words soaked in hate.

After some time had passed, Margaret broke the silence. She discussed her interpretation of the reactions of all passersby; how each reaction proves that the men and women who see our presence are affected. Those who ignore or turn their heads do so because they are confronted with the reality of our world. Those who address us with anger do so because we are displaying an opposing opinion. Those who honk, wave, and smile do so because it is how they show solidarity.

While we protest the existence of this war that continues to plague our nation, we also protest the degrading use of human life. We are not commodities that can be gambled. We are not to be used and spat back into an unsupported and invisible life. Each man and woman who is sacrificing their well being within the armed forces is deserving, as we all are, of food, shelter, and community. That man can choose to think we are against his son; but in fact, we support his humanity.

The Foreigner

After a Wednesday night liturgy held at the Catholic Worker house, the young women of the community decided to walk a friend home in East LA. The sun had already set, but we were walking in familiar territory.

As we passed through the residential area, we were stopped by a group of young boys no older than 15. They looked at us, half of the group being white, and said with a sense of worry, "Are you lost?"

All the ladies chuckled and said, "No."

"Where are you from?" they asked in complete wonder.

Sophie, being from Altadena, replied defiantly, "Around here!"

The boys just looked at the gringas and scoffed, "Yea... right." But as we walked away from the condescending teenagers, they called after us in an endearing desperation, "Hey! You girls wanna play some football?!"

I do feel like a foreigner here in East LA. It has less to do with my language, age or race than my familiarity of the area. While I might not look like I fit in, I surely don't act like I fit in. I recently learned that Pasadena is northeast of LA... it is not, in fact, closer to the beach. Or my slow and uncomfortable immersion into a constantly sunny and dry city (I sweat, I squint, I burn--I miss rain). Despite my obvious non-LA-ness, the people I have encountered have been more than happy to explain how the lightrail fees work ($250 fine without a ticket!), complain about the heat with me, or simply ask how my stay is going. It makes the transition much easier.

My new goal is to begin meeting people outside of the Catholic Worker. Everything I do and know about Los Angeles is somehow connected to the LACW. I can feel a strong need to meet new people, have a life outside of the Catholic Worker. I need to have a little bit of social independence. I'm severely ready for that independence.

Lastly: Ben Lee and Ione Skye volunteered at the Hippie Kitchen this week.

Necessities for a Catholic Worker in Training

2007-09-06T14:00:00.000-07:00

(1) Patience--There have been countless times I could have been rude to the guys on the Row, rolled my eyes at a community member, or given up on myself. But the patience that I have been granted during my time here has helped me stay my ground and not make too much more a fool of myself.

(2) Sense of Humor--Even if that means people making fun of me... constantly. Or guys on the Row looking at me saying, "Oh Lordy. You don't miss a meal, do you? You've got a healthy body!" Or when I'm watching the movie Moonstruck, and dreading Cher and Nicholas Cage and their completely dull acting. A sense of humor is quite helpful.

(3) Embrace the Smelliness--Everything reeks. You. Your food (only sometimes, especially if you've found it in the depths of the refrigerator or it's a moldy donation). The Row. The water. The things that smell good are Jeff Deitrich's cooking, clean clothes, and every once in a while I smell okay. Luckily, I don't have as much of a problem being a little stinky. It's part of the job description. I figure the things that need the help are the smelly things. Why stay clean and avoid the work when I can get dirty and get stuff done?

(4) An Open Mind--I, in no way, agree with everything the Catholic Worker believes and/or does. I actually don't think anyone at the house agrees completely. But together, we form our branch of the Catholic Worker movement. As part of that movement, it is important that we anticipate change and keep open minds toward the challenges, gifts, and unexpected moments that lay ahead. Without an open mind, the movement can't move. It's just stalled.

(5) Sacrifice--Sleep is usually the first to go; oftentimes sleep is sacrificed for the greater good of community (i.e.: helping someone with an early shift, staying up late to hang out with community members, etc.). Comfort and privacy are definitely high up on that list of sacrifice. While I have my own room, I'm not living a luxurious life here; and I share my living space with, currently, twenty-one people. Miscellaneous sacrifices also include air conditioning, cable, skim milk, fresh produce, my own car, and copious amounts of free time.

(6) Spiritual Commitment--Margaret used the phrase "intentional discernment" yesterday. It took me a little while to really understand what she was saying, but I realize that the Catholic Worker experience itself is intentional discernment. We welcome into our hearts and minds the opportunity to change our world. We look to our family, friends, leaders, and fellow humans to do the same. Hopefully this intentional discernment will bring answers whether it be to personal and internal peace or to a bigger picture. But the journey to those answers are just as important.

(7) A Good Liver--The Catholic Worker works hard, but we know how to play, too.

Another Four Months of Training

2007-09-02T12:07:00.000-07:00

I have given a commitment to the LACW community to live here through December. What I will be doing when January rolls around? I have no idea. But for now, it's nice to know that I have a place I can call home for a little while before/during my job hunt.

The phrase "job hunt" describes so well the process I must go through. I only have a certain amount of energy and skill, and I can hunt all day long without hitting anything. The hunting range might even be completely desolate, or full of game that is too far out of reach. The prospect of the real world is a little bit of a shock to my system still.

In other news, the LAPD has issued Segways to some police stationed downtown.

And James Brown was released from jail last week!

Lastly, the summers in LA apparently do not stop in September. The hot weather, as I have heard from numerous native LA folk, may continue into October. (Yesterday was at least 100 degrees.) Oh joy of joys.

It's Me!

2007-08-31T12:27:00.000-07:00

This is proof that I am still in fact alive and well at the Catholic Worker. Beside me is Margaret, a new Catholic Worker in Training. She's testing the waters for a month and will see if the place is right for her. It's nice to have another person my age in the house (she's 24), and it's even better that we're both still learning so much about the routine, lifestyle and quirks of the LACW.

Back to the Grind

2007-08-28T19:01:00.000-07:00

After 11 wonderful days in beautiful Oregon, I am back in Los Angeles. The break from the big city was much needed. I even got to sleep well past 7am (i.e.: 10am at the earliest), which was quite a treat!

I had the opportunity to visit family and friends in both Eugene and Portland, and heard the following question more times than I would have liked: "So, what's the plan now?" I understand that most people meant this question with the best of intentions; however, when I hear that question, it translates, most likely incorrectly, to, "Seriously, what are you really going to do with your life?"

Preferably, people would ask, "So, how are things in LA?" Because then I can respond with something like...

"Things are great! I love LA, even though it's pretty challenging. Definitely not something I could do for the rest of my life, but I'm happy for now."

And then they could ask, "So do you know what you want to do after LA?"

I'd smile, or laugh or roll my eyes sarcastically and say, "I don't necessarily have a plan, but I'm working on it. I'm taking a break from the job hunt for a few months so I can feel settled and focus on the work and community in LA. Eventually I'd really like to get into social work, and I think the experience I am getting in LA is really fitting for that goal."

The other person would nod, smile, and say, "It sounds like a struggle, but it also sounds like you're doing a great job. I'm glad you've found something you enjoy!"

See, isn't that a much better conversation? I think so.

I am blessed enough to have the support of my friends and family concerning my involvement with the Catholic Worker. I was almost reluctant to continue living here without that support system, but my visit back to Oregon has relieved me of that stress. My dad even said last night before I left, "Take as much time as you need in LA." It's difficult to describe the comfort that kind of statement brings; the feeling of knowing that despite the hippie decisions I make, I can count on my family to support me as long as I am doing what I feel I am called to do.

Every once in a while, and by that I mean approximately everyday, I take a step back from what I am doing and just realize what a rich part of my life I am living. Now, I can defer loans, be unemployed, live in voluntary poverty, speak my mind with confidence and still ask questions without embarrassment. I am young enough to be considered young, but old enough that my opinions suddenly mean something (maybe not a lot, but at least something). And while living in Los Angeles, I am taking full advantage of all of the opportunities. Am I going to be able to do this when I'm 30? 40? Probably not. By then I'm sure I will have fulfilled some sort of plan I had mustered up years before; and as much as I anticipate my life will still be driven by causes of social justice, I will not be able to act on them as I am doing now.

So I will grudgingly take work shifts the community signed me up for this week; but I do constantly remember that this is a unique experience in my life, and knowing that keeps me working. The life of a Catholic Worker in Training is tasking, but it's the life I'm choosing.

Homelessness Is Your Problem, Too

2007-08-15T09:37:00.001-07:00

A week and a half ago, my friend from Skid Row, James Brown, was arrested for not paying a $200 jaywalking ticket. His sentence is 60 days. About the same time, another friend, AJ, was arrested for sleeping on the sidewalk outside the Hippie Kitchen at 6:20am (the homeless are allowed to sleep on the sidewalk from 9pm to 6am). He got out of jail two days later and retrieved his carts that had been put in storage; the next day, someone set one of his carts on fire.

The life on Skid Row has become so much more hectic and brutal since last summer. Not only do the men and women have to be wary of each other, but there has been an extremely heightened presence of security and police officers in the area. There have been amazing consequences.

The guys who come to the Hippie Kitchen have been harassed by private security guards hired by companies in the downtown area. These officers are commonly known in the area as "shirts" because of the different colored uniforms they wear for the different districts in town. The Red Shirts often bike by the Hippie Kitchen, looking for men and women who are jaywalking, dealing drugs, sleeping on the sidewalk, storing their things in supermarket (aka: stolen) carts, and other crimes. The Red Shirts do either or possibly both of the following: (1) address the individual directly, search through personal belongings, take pictures of the individual, put the individual against the wall to pat down, and miscellaneous harassment; (2) contact the LAPD with the information they can receive from the individual, give the location and the police address the situation.

While it may seem that the Shirts are providing a service to protect the gentrified area, they are acting illegally. They have no rights outside the private property they are hired to secure. Outside the bounds of the company, they may wear a uniform but have only the rights as a common citizen. The Shirts are abusing their rights and are harassing the men and women on Skid Row.

If you spend just 15 minutes in the garden at the Hippie Kitchen, you will hear stories about Shirt and LAPD brutality. Two ACLU attorneys came to the kitchen last week to talk with our patrons about their experiences simply with police searching through belongings without probable cause or reasonable suspicion. Last year, they would have stayed for an hour maximum. Last week, they stayed from 9:30am to noon, speaking with as many people as they could. Everyone has a story, whether it is their own, friend's, neighbor's or something they witnessed. This doesn't even cover the arrests that are made for jaywalking just so the individual can be given a citation at the police station, or the tents and bags that are torn (not searched) apart, or the woman who was beaten outside our kitchen two months ago by four police officers, or all the unspoken and unknown crimes the victims are too afraid to speak about.

The men and women in Skid Row live day to day not only in poverty but in fear. They are being pushed out of Skid Row and into different districts of the city of Los Angeles and Los Angeles County. The downtown area has developed into a loft-city. New high-rises are popping up all over. Ads are seen throughout the media. The city is making a point to clean the city up a little, and have an "art walk" every month to help display the fun and exuberant aspects of the area.

But the city has seen that the area needs protecting. The abundance of police and security force only helps to prove that the city is preparing to help the men and women who plan to move into these lofts and eradicate homelessness at the same time... or at least make the homeless someone else's problem.

First Day of Line Watcher Training

2007-08-11T13:21:00.000-07:00

On Tuesday, I came the closest I ever have to a fight in the garden at the Hippie Kitchen. Currently, I am in training for line watching. I have to be aware of people cutting in line, fighting or leaving their spot in line. If a fight breaks out, I have to call another line watcher (a community member) to stop the argument. While I do not have the proper training and/or courage to put myself in a position to stop the arguments now, I will be one of those people in the future.

Sitting outside with Clare and Martha, I was learning about basic line watching skills (eyes on the line, always say "hi," communicate with other line watchers, etc.). While Martha was just a few feet away from me, I felt there was just enough space between us for me to have my own space to watch over as a rookie. And then I saw a streak out of the corner of my eye. I turned to see a man dump a cup of water on a woman in the garden, exchange nasty words, and then spit on her. By the time he was walking away, the woman started to walk after him. I knew from the second I saw the water hit her face that the situation would turn ugly very quickly; and when I realized that these actions did not correspond with the atmosphere of peace at the Hippie Kitchen, I anxiously called Martha's attention to the fight.

Martha, 53 years old and as gentle as anyone could be, hurriedly brought herself in between the man and woman. She waved her hands in small, nonthreatening circles, only saying, "Please don't. Please don't." The look on Martha's face expressed her dread for the situation, but more so it described her complete heartache that she should have to encourage peace. As if the man she stood in front of had personally let her down.

Meanwhile, I stood no more than 10 feet away wondering why I had not acted sooner. Why did I watch him spit on the woman? If I had called Martha just a second earlier, would the situation be much different? And just as these thoughts raced through my mind, I saw the woman struggling with a young man who jumped in as Martha did. The woman had picked up a pepper container (a glass bottle) off a nearby cart and threw it at the man who spat on her. The bottle crashed on the ground, and the woman ran out of the garden to the street.

Martha handed the remaining salt and pepper containers to me and asked me to bring them inside the kitchen. Her tone was firm but calm. I, on the other hand, could not control my anxiousness. I scurried inside the kitchen holding the two bottles and thrust them at the woman who was serving the main dish. "Take these!" I squeaked.

"What?" she replied, holding a plate full of beans in one hand and and a ladle in the other.

"Just take them!" I held the containers, looking at her with desperation. Seeing that she was not in a rush as I was, I shoved them towards another woman who was standing next to her. Still not knowing exactly what to do, I went back outside to see if there were more containers I could frantically pass around the kitchen, or if the garden was as it should be.

I found that Martha was no longer waving her hands, the woman had left, and the man seemed to be less aggressive. But right as the guard seemed to have been let down, he sprinted past me toward the door of the kitchen to cut through to the street. This time, Clare joined Martha in begging this man's cooperation. Only 21 years old, but full of the necessary power and confidence of a line watcher, Clare held her arms out and chanted, "Peaceful garden. Peace. This is a peaceful garden," over Martha's heart wrenching pleas. The man simply turned around and left for the street.

Taking a few deep breaths to bring myself back from the panicked few minutes, I only felt embarrassment. I did not help. I stood and watched. And when I was asked to help, I was an anxious mess. Am I suited for this job? I spoke with Martha later that day and received the affirmation I needed: I did do a good job; I took the containers as I was asked; I did not overstep my boundaries; I did not assume responsibilities as a trained line watcher would.

I have mixed feelings about my position as a potential line watcher, but the negative feelings are only based in fear: fear of failure, timidness, weakness. Now finishing my third day of line watcher training, I can notice on my own the skills I need to develop. I am excited to prove to myself and the community that I am strong enough to confront the men and women, but kind enough to offer friendship. I have no doubt that the training will continue to bring stories just as nerve-racking, but I know that I will grow stronger because of them.