Wednesday, September 25, 2013

Fear and Trembling




          Today I went to the reading hour at my community center in Pension Town.  I went to reading hour not knowing what to expect, but excited to see what the center was about and meet some folks who might be interested in volunteering in the garden. 
            Over enormous blueberry Costco muffins and bottles of ice water, I sat with four other women, the only white lady among them, and read Little Black Girl Lost #4, an account of a farmer’s daughter captured from Nigeria by Dutch slave traders.  As I am reading this book with these women, all of whom are older than me, I notice how many of them struggle with the reading.  Listening to them read aloud is similar to listening to my former eighth grade students read aloud; they help each other, but frequently stumble over complicated words. 
            As I am reading this book with these women, I also notice how much violence is present.  Of course, we are reading about the conditions on a slave ship en-route to Europe from Africa, but in only twenty pages, we are privy to the grisly details of a beating, a shooting, and three shark attacks.   One of the victims of these incidents is a child.  We stop at this point to reflect on how witnessing violence impacts children, and how children deal with witnessing violence, as well as living with the threat of violence on a daily basis.  We are not talking about the book anymore.
           
            I live in one of the deadliest cities in the United States.  There have been four murders in my neighborhood already this year, including the September 2nd death of an 11-year old girl.  She was shot in a drive by while sleeping in her home less than two blocks from the garden where I work.  Two years ago, there was a drive by shooting at the school where my garden is located, in the middle of the day!  No less than eight gang members just got arrested at the corner store with the excellent fried chicken that sits across the street from my garden.  In June, an Americorps volunteer was shot to death while walking on one of the cross streets that borders my garden.

            I listen to these women reflect on how these events shape this neighborhood that is my home.  I listen to them and I think, “What am I doing here?”  I am a little white girl lost in a land where the privilege of my skin color, education, and class separate me from those I’m called to serve every day.  I don’t have stories about getting pregnant at 17 and then watching the same thing happen to my daughter.  I don’t have stories about watching my son witness a murder and then turn to drugs, before eventually getting the help he needed through a social worker.  All I have is a donated tomato plant, and a donated trowel, and what frequently feels like a donated sense of courage. 
            I believe that, with God’s help, I can be safe in my garden, and that showing up and humming to my plants on a sweaty patch of asphalt can serve as a witness to the idea that if God can sustain my trust and my courage in the face of so much fear, maybe He can start doing it for more of the folks around me.  And maybe, that will make the world a slightly better place for all of us.  

Thursday, September 12, 2013

Orienting


         
     Greetings all!  Sorry it's been a while since my last post, but as I mentioned in my first post, blogging gives me anxiety.  Anywho, I've been reflecting a lot lately on my YAV orientation thus far, which has consisted of two stages: the first was a week in Stony Point, New York with all 68 of the Young Adult Volunteers serving this year, as well as with YAV Alums and national church office staff.  The second is currently taking place in and around the city of New Orleans.  Though our city orientation technically ended two weeks ago when we began work at our site placements, I’m still getting my feet under me, and while I love and value being oriented, it is exhausting, and it’s particularly difficult because I feel hyper cognizant of my age.
            Though one can serve as a YAV if they are anywhere between the ages of 19 and 30, after which I guess you’re no longer considered “young” and only “adult”, no one in the upper end of this age spectrum seems to serve.  Case in point: perhaps 8 of the 68 YAVs this year were past the age of 25.  I assume, perhaps incorrectly, that this is due to the fact that by the time most folks hit 30, they have somehow managed to figure their lives out, at least to the extent that they don’t need to spend a year living with other people that they don’t really know doing community service work.  Folks near 30 are supposed to be in grad school, getting married, having babies, or holding down jobs that pay them a salary whilst providing health care and ensuring eventual financial stability.  Near 30 year olds are “productive”, not inquisitive!  I’ve always assumed that by the time I was cresting 30 this would be my reality too.  I honestly thought that just approaching that magic number would make my life fall into place; it would somehow settle me.

            In case you haven’t figured it out yet, this has not happened, and I must say, being an almost not “Young” Adult Volunteer is intimidating.  My time at Stony Point really hit this home for me.  Here I was, surrounded by folks fresh out of college, who stared at me with a confused awe.  “What the hell is this old person doing here?” I imagined them wondering, and then subsequently tweeting/texting/ or Facebook messaging to all of their friends. 

            For me, this second year of YAV means embracing ambiguity and acknowledging that I don’t have my shit together in a profound and jarringly vulnerable way.  It also means redefining adulthood and honoring the fact that life is gloriously messy.  Relationships don’t always work out, jobs aren’t always fulfilling, achieving the “American Dream” can be a slippery business, and no matter how many times you had to read Death of a Salesman in high school, it’s still hard to acknowledge that dream as impossible to maintain, and frequently overrated.

            This year is definitely going to continue to be uncomfortable for me, but ultimately, I’m having a good time, and folks, YAV and otherwise, are meeting me where I am and respecting and even celebrating it.  I only hope that I can do the same for the people I live with, work with, and encounter through this program, and that I can continue to do so well into my “adulthood”—whatever that eventually comes to mean for me.  


 
Some pics from Stony Point...



My wonderful small group!
from left--Catherine, Clarissa, Bennett, Me, Tony, Libby, and Kelsey














The YAVs I got commissioned with at First Presbyterian Church of Englewood enjoying Korean BBQ!

Clockwise from left--Kelsey, Suyeon, Me, and Ian