Peace in Advent

I’ve decided that the focus for this week of advent is peace. I was meditating on our community’s advent theme on the nature of advent—that it is a season of looking forward but also of being present. It was/is really hard for me to think of peace as anything other than something to look forward to because I cannot really find it in the world right now. Every day I work with refugees whose lives have been irrevocably changed by war. They sit in refugee camps and wait for decades for a peace that hasn’t come. I also keep thinking about the war in Afghanistan. I was 12 years old when we first sent troops into that nation and ten years later we are still at war. Several of my friends and family members are leaving or have left to join that fighting and I have this deep fear that it will never end. So then, peace is definitely something we look forward. We wish for and pray for the coming of Christ so that there will be peace. We don’t have a lot of control over peace in the world right now, at least I don’t. I get frustrated and overwhelmed waiting for peace. Meanwhile, I am picking up the pieces of war every day at my work. Really, we all are—there is a lack of peace at home too. We all deal with victims of violence in some way.

So where is the preparation—what do we do presently? How do we actively pursue peace when our efforts to end war seem so ineffective? I’ve been thinking about this for a while and I am repeatedly drawn to a specific part of mass--which we also do in protestant churches—when we turn to one another and say “God’s Peace” or “Peace be with you.” We aren’t saying “peace be between us” as I normally think of peace, but “peace be with you.” We are praying that our neighbor finds peace within their own heart. I think this is the key to what we are pursuing this advent to prepare for Christ. We have to try to make peace with ourselves. Personally, I know that there is a war going on in my mind—my head tells me , “you aren’t good enough, that screw-up doesn’t deserve forgiveness, you didn’t help that person enough.” I’m not very good at forgiving myself—but I need to in order to make peace.

And so, I challenge you this advent season to pursue peace within yourself. Let’s pursue peace in our hearts as passionately as we pursue peace for our clients and for the world. Ask yourself in the quiet of advent “how am I waging war in my soul, and how can I bring peace.”

“God, grant us peace. Peace for the world, peace for our clients, and peace for us. Guide us so that we can find peace in preparation for your coming. And help us not to lose hope that you are coming—that peace is coming." 

An Advent Reflection

This Sunday was the first Sunday of Advent (at least that is what I understood, feel free to scathingly correct me if I am wrong). I have been attending the Lutheran Church near my house and this week I watched them light the first candle. Actually, that is a lie, I came in late and the candle was already lit--but I did hear the sermon about the four values/ideals of advent--Peace, Love, Hope and Joy. After the service I asked the pastor what order those values went in, or which candle was lit that first day because I had some idea of doing an advent ceremony with my community. The pastor told me that there were so many explanations for which candle meant what and what order they should be lit in that the church didn't even try to assign a value to a candle--he encouraged me to just pick an order that made sense to me.

I gave it some thought while I made a traditional advent wreath (that is, made from styrofoam with branches I scrounged from our bushes and some candles from the discount rack at Craft Warehouse). As soon as I finished the wreath I felt particularly inspired to share my thoughts with my community. I wrote a short reflection and read it before lighting the first candle. Here is what I wrote:

"After the pastor today advised me to choose my own order for the four values of advent--Peace, Love, Joy and Hope--I meditated for a while on what should come first. Hope jumped out at me as the place to start. I think that hope is one of the most critical, if not the most critical idea for us to embrace in our line of work. It is really easy for us to be consumed by despair in the social services. I now that every one of us sees evidence day in and day out that things are really messed up, that people are hurting, that things could easily get worse and that they often do, that there isn't always a place to turn and it is not magically going to get better. I feel this despair weighing down my steps and it makes every interaction harder and makes my work feel pointless. I think that everyone feels this way. The only answer to this despair is hope. Hope is a fundamentally revolutionary act. It is a way to defy the world's seemingly constant oppression and say, "no, you are wrong, things can and will get better." Hope doesn't require that we see the way, just that we believe there is a way. It is not something that comes easy, it isn't logical, it isn't even very comforting at first--it is, rather, a deliberate choice or practice that is developed in time. You have to choose hope--to choose to really, deeply believe that despite all the evidence to the contrary, things will improve for these people we are serving. With that said, I think that hope has to come first in the advent season. Because in order to change the world, as Christ set out to do, we first have to conquer despair. And so we turn to hope--Hope for Christ in the advent season and for all that he represents: peace, love, and joy. These values represent a revolutionary change that will transform the world we work in--this despair and pain will be swept away and replaced with joy and peace. The first step is hope--truly believing that it will happen. I want to offer this prayer for everyone, 'God, give us hope; teach us how to hope. Help everyone of us to overcome the powerful despair that dogs our steps and instead help us to embrace a revolutionary hope that this world is going to change. Amen.' And so, I light this candle for hope."   

A "great story"

(I am literally going to submit this to AmeriCorps as one of my two mandatory "great stories" from service this year)

The other day I was asked to take a Nepali couple for their initial medical screening. Though I had to get out of bed at an ungodly hour to drive all the way across town during a foggy rush hour, I was happy to do it. When I returned to pick the couple up after their appointment, they were waiting to hear from the nurse about something. It took me a while to figure out what they were waiting for but I eventually heard "pregnancy appointment" (by which I assumed they meant pre-natal care--not arranging for one). I turned to the wife to congratulate her and asked her how far along she was, to which the husband replied "8 months." I did a serious double-take and realized that yes, this woman was in fact very pregnant and I had not noticed (in my defense, she was covering it up with a large scarf--I think it is a modesty thing). Eventually the nurse came out and explained to me that I needed to somehow schedule this woman for some prenatal care at clinic that would take medicaid since she was 8 months along and had not yet seen a doctor. I happily agreed with no clue as to how difficult that would be. It turns out that no ob-gyn clinic in Portland will see a woman for the first time during her 8th month of pregnancy unless she has well-documented prenatal care because they don't want to be liable for something going wrong. I called clinic after clinic, incredulously, and listened to them explain that yes, though this woman did need to see a doctor right away they did not want to be the ones to do it. I was actually told that her only option was to go to the emergency room! They wanted a medicaid patient to go to the ER for routine prenatal care! I was outraged/appalled/any other furious emotion that would capture the essence of all that is wrong with our medical system. By my 7th or 8th phone call I started to lose my cool--I hadn't eaten in hours and was running on little sleep. I am embarrassed to say that I got quite snippy with a receptionist at a clinic and hung up on her after she used the words "not my problem."
In the end I did get her an appointment. I asked another Catholic Charities agency (Pregnancy & Adoption Support) for help and they gave me the number of a social worker at a Midwife clinic who was able to hook me up with some basic care and a nepali interpreter. (woot!) I took the couple to an ultrasound appointment yesterday--during which the husband was grinning nonstop--and the couple told me that they were having a baby girl around the first of January. The husband also told me, however, that he was not surprised by the news because "a woman in Nepal with magical powers told me it would be a girl." Well, clearly she was right. Let's hope that it is a healthy girl too. Pregnancy support is also hooking up the family with a new baby welcome kit (bottles, clothes, diapers and blankets) so the first member of this family to be born in their new country will arrive in style.

Photo Update

 I have been remiss in my visual updates. Here are a few pictures of what we did during the weekends:

Almost the whole house at the Gum wall (near Pike place market in Seattle)

The Rose Test Garden in NW Portland (Late August) with some of the gals from my house.

Prepping our Halloween Costumes

Our official Halloween costumes--Space Jam (these are our "planet faces." If you cannot tell, I am earth)

Joe and I found a book called "Balancing sport and acrobatics" on the giveaway shelf at the library. We decided to learn some of the moves--this is our best one so far (And I DID NOT fall! We can hold that pose for ~15 seconds! And I can flip out of it)

A quick catch-up on the last few weeks

Hey y'all, I apologize for my uncharacteristic silence. Things have been busy in the refugee world (and in the medical school application world). Allow me to give you a shortened list of highlights (I don't have time for the long one since I must catch a bus)

I was accepted to Emory!!! I don't know if that is where I will end up going but it is nice to know that someone will take me. By this time next year I will be in medical school (probably drowning my sorrows at a dive bar after a horrendous anatomy exam). I was also invited to interview at a few more schools (Tulane, Duke and the U of U). I will keep you all posted as the decision-making progresses

I was able to compile a good list of the shocking, the predictable, and the shockingly predictable:
     The predictable: One of the somali guys has decided that he wants an American girlfriend. As I am the only girl he has met in the United States he decided to ask me. (His english isn't very good so I just pretended that I didn't understand and started pointing out bus routes on the way back from the clinic). When I dropped him off at his apartment he thanked me by kissing my arm (I think he was aiming for my hand but I was surprised and moved--plus he was nervous). His english is not good enough for me to explain the concept of boundaries to him (though if he gets too forward I suppose a slap is a pretty international signal). So I have mostly been avoiding the problem by avoiding him. It has mostly worked. Although the other day I was supposed to pick up this guy and his three roommates. When I arrived the three roommates were gone and he invited me to wait with him until they returned.....I declined and instead went to the library to kill time.

     The shocking: We received a huge clothing donation from a children's clothing store that went out of business. We don't have anywhere to store clothing so I took the 16 trash bags of clothes to another charity. Unfortunately, one of the other caseworkers found out the next day and was extremely upset because she needed clothes for one of her client's kids. So, I had to go back to the charity and take advantage of a new volunteer who was naive enough to leave me and another intern in the storage room to "pick out a few outfits." We frantically started stuffing clothes into trash bags and managed to bring back two bags of kids' clothing with no one the wiser. (what did you do today sarah? 'oh, nothing, just stole back my donations from a charity').

     The shockingly predictable: The US refugee resettlement program is really messed up. It is almost perfectly designed to fail. Also, since it is under the umbrella of TANF (temporary assistance to needy families) it is a part of the welfare block of "discretionary spending" that congress is talking about slashing. The benefits that families get only last for 8 months---in 8 months a refugee family is supposed to be economically independent (with a full-time job in this economy), speaking english, and adjusted to life in the US! It used to be 3 years of support but "budgetary concerns" during the early 2000s cut it down to less than a year. So yeah, that sucks.

On a lighter note, I just came back from the social security office where I took an adorable Burmese couple. I was speaking to the husband (who knows english) and asked him what he wanted to do in the US. He replied that he wanted to get a job where he could learn how to make coffee drinks--particularly how to make cool pictures in cappuccino foam. He fled his village in Myanmar and survived three years in a refugee camp in malaysia and now he has come to the United States and wants to be a barrista--if that isn't the american dream then I don't know what is!

The Good, the Bad and the Ugly

So there is this Sudanese family with whom I have been working that is in somewhat dire straits. The mom has been desperately looking for a job for the last 10 months but has had no luck on account of her poor English. Meanwhile she is on public assistance which is enough to pay rent and have $60/month left over—which does not cover utilities. I have spent countless hours trying to find utilities assistance, convincing companies to let her pay off past-due bills in installments, etc. There were a few significant developments last week while I worked on this. I have broken them down into “the good, the bad and the ugly”:

The good: This mom had an account with Comcast which, with refugee benefits, was easily paid for. Unfortunately, right as her refugee benefits ended so did the “promotional” price that Comcast had started her with and suddenly this mom was charged $90/month and had no way to pay it. There are no non-profits that will pay for phone bills so she was left facing a collections agency for the balance of the bill. Luckily, one of the case managers in my office had started a refugee-interest group at his church and they had some money left over from a bake sale. They agreed to pay off the phone bill and I helped the mom switch to a phone service that charged only $13/month.

The bad: I was trying to figure out how much this mom owed for water (she cannot read English and so bills sent to her house are frequently lost). I called the apartment manager (who sends out the water bills) and asked for a ballpark figure each month. The apartment manager was surprised to report that it was very high (around $70/mo) and asked me how many people were living there—I explained that the Sudanese mother has 7 children. Turns out that 8 people in a 3 bedroom apartment violates occupancy laws and that this woman’s case manager had told the apartment manager that only 4 people were living there. The apartment manager was not happy and insisted on inspecting the apartment by the end of the month. I may have inadvertently gotten this family evicted—I still don’t know what will happen.

The ugly: Naturally, I wanted to know who lied to the apartment manager (catholic charities has a strict honesty policy—otherwise shit like this happens). Turns out that this Sudanese mother’s case was not handled by catholic charities but by another volunteer agency called Kurdish Human Right’s Watch. They were only a resettlement agency for one year and have since been shut down by the state for improperly resettling refugees (exhibit one: Sudanese mother with 7 children in a 3 bedroom apartment). I managed to track down the now-unemployed case manager from KHRW and asked him about the apartment. He said yes, he did tell the apartment manager that there were only 3 children and told the mother to just keep the other kids out  of sight until she got into section 8 housing (for which, might I add, there is a 3 year waiting list). THAT was his plan? WTF? I was really angry and started venting to a coworker who then told me some of the other, crazier stories involving this case worker. Apparently he is well-known in the Somali community for misusing resettlement funds and not bringing families what they needed. His reputation was so bad that it got back to the Somalis in the refugee camps and, according to my coworker, one Somali family saw him waiting for them as they were walking out of airport security and they turned and started running the other way (where they thought they were going I do not know).

The REALLY ugly: this guy. According to my supervisor he looks like a child and has no fashion sense (dresses in over-sized suits--Which isn’t helping the childish look). My supervisor apparently has a sassy side.

Hopefully the oldest daughter in this family, who speaks english, will be able to get a job soon. I am left praying fervently for them.

What we really did for our AmeriCorps hours.....

My house's submission to the jesuit volunteer publication "Out of Focus":

 

What We Really Did For Our Americorps Hours

By The Gresham Haus

We all know that Americorps is obsessed with numbers and stats. JVC Northwest asks us to record exactly how many people we served and the number of direct and indirect service hours, down to the quarter hour. As we all meticulously struggle to remember, "Did I spend 4.25 or 4.5 hours running stats on that excel sheet?" we all know that we do some other ridiculous work at our placements. Truthfully, some of our supervisors think that just because we are JVs, they can give us the lame jobs (which is true). These are some things that we counted into our Americorps hours, but didn't include in the service report:

·         Returned a Whole Foods shopping cart found on our property (4.25 hours)

·         Consolidated 18 bottles of conditioner into a more easily accessible pump conditioner
 bottle (1.25 hours [training])

·         Refilled 2,304 dog bones into our free dog treat container (.75 hours)

·         Searched dry food cupboards for moth's nests (3 hours)

·         Searched for rogue rats within our office walls because they won’t stop eating our cat and dog food after hours (3.5 hours)

·         Practiced company fire drills (0.5 hours)

·         Searched wildly, and conspicuously, for any company or store that would be willing to donate condoms to our organization (7.75 hours)

·         Made ghost decorations for Halloween (2.5 hours)

·         Played Battleship (aka relationship building) (0.75 hours)

·         Cleaned poop out of bathroom scrub brushes because someone thought it was a good idea to use them as plungers instead of using plungers as plungers (1 hour)

·         Forced awkward youth group middle school students to play stupid ice breakers (6 hours)

·         Volunteered at other organizations (6.25 hours)

·         Made greeting cards with collages of floating cat heads because a professional cat photographer comes to our organization every Tuesday to host an art class (2.75 hours)

·         Got haircuts because students from the beauty school donated their time to our organization, but none of the guests wanted haircuts, so we didn’t want to waste the beauty school student’s volunteered time (.75 hours)

·         Attempted to make a perfectly sized pinback button template, down to the millimeter, by shrinking and expanding an unusable button template with those God-forsaken things called copy machines. (3.75 hours)

·         Chased a client around Portland, when she was, in fact, not in Portland.  (2.25 hours)

·         Copied roughly 1,000 pieces of paper (9.5 hours...and counting)

·         Taped pictures of traffic lights to popsicle sticks (0.5 hours)

·         Took pictures of traffic lights off popsicle sticks only to attach to different popsicle sticks. (0.75 hours)

·         Tried to find breakdancing lessons for a client (1.25 hours) 

·         Tried to fix that cheap-ass office chair that I broke because I leaned back too far (.5 hours)

·         Argued with irate people on the phone about the lack of funding for energy or utility assistance only to be met with cries, swearing, and threats to the organization. Of these phone calls, approximately 18% of the time was spent attempting an explanation as to why our organization cannot give them any assistance, 68% of the time was spent listening to their stories and trying to be present while knowing exactly what our answers are going to be, 4.5% of the time was spent chewing on the end of my pen, 7.5% of the time was spent in awkward silence, 2% of the time was spent trying to figure out how to either transfer or hang-up calls on these complicated phones (60.25 hours)

·         Donated baby clothes to another non-profit, then asked for the donations back because we accidentally donated all of our baby clothes (0.75 hours)

·         Played heads or tails with a kid at the social security office (1.5 hours)

·         Gossiped about coworkers (8.75 hours)

·         Wrote this bulleted list (1.25 hours)

Sarah-in-Dallas

[Once again, I am in another city taking a short break from solidarity with the huddled masses for a med school interview. UT Southwestern if anyone cares. I did not meet the son of a foreign diplomat on my way from the airport but I am seeing some of the family, which rocks]

On tuesday I finally felt like I had gotten back my equilibrium (it was short-lived. I lost it again today while trying to prepare for a few days in Texas but never mind that) in other words, I managed to catch up on all of the random things that I had to do in the office and got all of my kiddos registered for after school programs (including a break dancing club. That's right-I got a refugee kid into a breakdancing class, what did you do today?). I partially credit the fact that I was served three cups of coffee by different refugee clients (two of which were turkish coffee double shots). I was literally bouncing off of my flimsy cubicle walls. I sprinted up the four flights of stairs back to work after lunch and I started blitzing through case notes. I was practically vibrating with energy at my desk (I think I scared my coworkers a little--I may have been talking fast). The first cup of coffee came from a Nepali family who asked me if I wanted tea before we left to get clothes for their kids (we need to work on English food vocabulary). The second two cups came from an Eritrean mother who prepared the coffee in the traditional way on a little stove plugged into the wall (in violation of her rental agreement) and with a burning pile of herbal incense (also in violation of her rental agreement). Neither the Nepali family nor the eritrean mom had enough english for me to politely decline. But on the bright side all of my case notes are up to date (no mean feat).

Speaking of Nepali families--I had to take a family to DHS for one of the other case managers. Unfortunately the car was checked out so I had to borrow a car from a case manager. My coworker handed me his keys and said "the car's name is rufus--ignore the noises." Rufus is a 1987 volvo stationwagon with no AC, a broken speedometer, and nonfunctional locks (but who in their right mind would steal it). So on our way to DHS I am trying to merge onto the freeway with no idea how fast I'm going, I have all of the windows open (it is hotter'n hell), my GPS is trying to give me directions and this Nepali father decides to start asking me all of the questions that have perplexed him concerning christianity. At that moment he asked "so there are two types of christians, right? catholics and protestants--what is the difference?" As I tried not to kill us and mentally cursed out my coworker I abruptly responded "ummm....there is no difference....they are the same" And with that, the Reformation is solved. (to be fair, how would you explain the difference to a hindu? "well, there is this guy with a cool hat and red prada shoes.....")

Heart-tugger of the day/week-- There is this adorable little sudanese 12yr old boy who really wanted to play soccer for the school team. He missed the tryouts but when I called the school they agreed that he could go to make-up tryouts that day--they would let him know. I arranged a ride home for him and made sure he know, but he didn't show up for the tryouts. The next day the activities coordinator asked him why he didn't go and discovered that he was too embarassed by his lack of cleats. (he had also told me earlier that he is embarassed by his name because everyone says it wrong--poor kiddo!). I was so bummed out for this boy and I didn't know what to do for him. But the activities coordinator called me later that day and told me that she spoke to the coach and in the end the school is going to buy the kid a pair of cleats and they are automatically accepting him onto the team (after they cut 20 other boys). Hooray! (Now I just need to arrange rides for him to and from the games and somehow find $30 for his registration fee (details, details)).

Defining the relationship: what exactly am I supposed to do again?

[This stream of consciousness was prompted by an evaluation my area director sent out. It asked "What is your job/what are your duties at work? does it match your expectations for the year? Does the job description match the reality?]

I have a really hard time answering the question "what do you do at Catholic Charities again?" I still am really unsure. I think if I made it my job to officially re-staple all I-94 documents exactly in the upper left-hand corner with a golden ratio of margins then it would take a few months for someone to notice and ask me what the hell I was doing. What I mean to say is that there are so many things that I could be doing that this job is exactly what I make of it week to week. And there is no one tracking what I choose to do. Last week I did parent-teacher conferences, helped kids start their school years, assembled backpacks and filled out after school registration forms (I was a mom-- I would now like to offer a shoutout to all parents out there who had to do this for me and my friends growing up, it is a pain). Next week I am driving refugee families to clothing closets to help them get winter clothes, I am networking with the health department to get carseats and I am filling out 20 student progress questionnares for all of my cases. The week after that I might do an airport pickup or attend a health screening with a nepali family. Right now I am sitting in a library after spending the afternoon helping an iranian girl write a resume. I really felt useful and I think it has been very helpful but it is not something that I probably should be spending my work hours doing (though it is a saturday, so I am technically not working, but I am, so really I just need to get a life outside of the office-or the refugee apartment-or whatever.) I cannot spend an afternoon with every refugee (though I wish I could) that is really more the role of a volunteer. But at the same time I am not a case manager so I have the freedom to do whatever project I wish. The end result is that I just feel a bit confused and I have this constant anxiety that I am not doing what I am supposed to do or that I am not doing enough. But I think that this is par for the course for refugee resettlement--frankly, there is not enough time or money to do the necessities so I figure that anything I may choose to do will help. (okay, maybe not re-stapling the I-94s). What I do know is that I am pretty happy in my work, and pretty damn busy (which are alarmingly synonymous things for me). So I shall continue on in the same haphazard fashion and hopefully do something right for somebody.

Sarah-in-Atlanta

I temporarily renamed my blog to more accurately reflect my location. I am, in fact, in Atlanta taking a short break from simple living in order to interview for medical school at Emory. The trip has, so far, been absolutely fabulous. I was worried that my nerves would spoil everything but so far I have been having a blast. Last night I arrived at the courtyard marriot where I was given a room with two double beds so I naturally ate cookies and crackers in one of them while watching TV and surfing the internet and then slept in the other one after showering in a large, clean shower that had a massage setting on the shower head. It was SO nice to just revel in the little modern luxuries. But I didn't totally take a break from my jesuit volunteer-ness-- I still let yellow mellow in the bathroom until I left in the morning to save water :)

The trip has also been wonderful because I met the COOLEST shuttle driver ever last night. While the plane was pulling up the gate I got a phone call from an unknown number-- on the other end was a heavily-accented man named Sayeed asking for me. I assumed it was one of the refugees who needed something (oops....to be fair I get those calls a lot) but it was actually my shuttle driver letting me know where he would pick me up. When I got in the car I naturally asked him where he was from and it turns out that he was Somali! That launched a conversation about the Somali people I knew and then he started to tell me about his family. Turns out that this guy's dad was the somali ambassador to Germany from the 60s through the 80s! He was also invited to the United States as a part of the new African delegation to begin integrating African political leaders into world politics (while in the US he told the US ambassador that his country needed to work on civil rights). And, in the 70s, he negotiated the rescue of hostages from a hijacked plane from Monaco that was being held in somalia and he was subsequently honored at the German parliament--only the second foreigner to be so honored (first was JFK, third was Nelson Mandela)! How awesome is that! I told this Sayeed guy that he should write a book about his dad and that he has a really awesome family. Sayeed went on to tell me about the political history of Somalia and gave his opinion about international intervention efforts. At the end of the shuttle ride he refused to accept a tip and wished me luck on my interview.

In another instance of strange yet fruitful meetings, the woman next to me on the plane was extremely chatty and told me her whole life story. She then asked about what I was doing and when I mentioned the refugees she said "Oh my gosh! If you ever need clothes or blankets you need to contact this person from the American Sewing Guild (which (a) exists apparently and (b) she is a member of) and they will make you anything that you need!" She also gave me the name and contact info for another woman who does traditional hand embroidery who could help out the sudanese mother I may have mentioned before (7 children, limited english, does elaborate emroidery). I feel like Grandma Dupont would have been proud of the entire evening-- networking with strangers chance encounters, the Dupont way.

My interview is tomorrow and I am feeling great about it. I feel like this trip has been very auspicious so far. I have a few more stories from my week in the refugee world that I will have to tell you about later (my time on the lobby computer is about to be up) but quick preview: CPS, negotiating with a teenager to get her to help her dad pay rent, parent-teacher night with the congolese, public health department meeting about infectious disease in the refugee community (NOT a fantasy--actually happened!!!) and another CPS encounter. until then, stay well, insh'allah!

Portlandia

My housemates and I have been embracing our Portland citizenship with super "bourgey" (as in bourgeois) activities. It started when two of my housemates went to this super organic/local/portlandia store yesterday afternoon and priced Diva cups on their iphones while chatting with a lesbian couple doing the same. From there we all took the bus downtown and went to see the swifts at Chapman elementary. ( http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wy5oN7fv8aw ) This is a phenomenon that happens every september as these birds (swifts) migrate south. Thousands of them roost in the chimney of this elementary school every evening and at dusk they all fly in a spiral pattern around it and then, when some hidden cue is broadcasted, they all swoop down and dive into the chimney. It was really neat! We brought a picnic and watched it with about 1,000 other spectators. We then went to a local brewery and took the max home. This morning, while it was pouring rain, we trekked to the community garden and worked on our plot as a house activity. We harvested potatoes and planted kale and spinach. I am now sitting in a coffee shop mooching free internet while drinking tea out of a ceramic mug and wearing a knitted purple hat. Did I mention that two of my housemates are also out getting new piercings? As I said, embracing portland.

Work was great this week--I took a few more kids to their first days of school! I also got to go to a kindergarten orientation with a burmese child and her Dad. I want to go back to kindergarten! I also ran into an interesting problem at the social security office. One of our clients hadn't received her social security card and when I asked why they explained that their records said that she had already applied. Or rather, a woman with her name and birthdate had already applied. The problem is that every somali who does not have a birth certificate (which is anyone not born in the refugee camp, aka over the age of 20) is automatically given the birthday of 01/01/year they guess they were born. Somalis also have a few names that are REALLY common (Mohhamed, for example). So it is not surprising that two women with the same name who are roughly the same age are assigned the same birthdate and apply for social security cards. It's a problem.... not sure how it will work out.

I am getting some serious glares about the internet mooching--gotta run. Until next time!

Speaking of Refugees.....

Working with refugees leads to bizarre phone conversations. I sometimes find myself talking to Americans on the phone without any articles and only in the present tense because of habits I picked up at work (Friday we go coffee?). But sometimes I get to overhear some real gems from my coworkers: “We have an appointment tomorrow.... what? You moved to Alaska?” “No—Paw is her first name, Paw is his last name, and I don’t know who that third child named Paw is.” “There are three people in Kenya with the names..(x y z)..who say they know you and want to live with you when they arrive—do you know who these people are?” “Yes, I would like to rent an apartment for four single men from Somalia” (that last one has to raise a red flag for some agency somewhere I feel). And finally, the most sketchy-“Yes, she is not coming because she is being detained because of that fake bomb” (NO idea what that last one was about).

Speaking of Somalis—I made a trip to the clinic yesterday with a Somali mom, her kids, and an Iranian guy. They all had appointments around the same time so I decided to carpool and pick them both up for the clinic. Somehow the Iranian ended up in the back with the two kids but they both smiled and it seemed fine. Suddenly there was yelling in Somali and frantic movement from the mom and while I’m trying to keep the car on the road I turn around in time to see the mom do an impressive swooping maneuver and thrust a plastic bag in front of a puking kid. Everyone is talking rapidly and I am trying to pull over (into the clinic parking lot, conveniently enough) all the while the Iranian guy, looking deathly pale, is saying “Sarah! Sarah! Sarah!” with a tinge of panic while pointing at the puke-filled bag. I finally pull into a handicap parking spot, jump out, grab the kid and his bag, run him to the bathroom, toss the bag, find the rest of the crew and shoo them inside so that I can park (though it was complicated by the little girl who really wanted to help so kept taking my keys out of the car and shutting my door, not understanding that I had to move the car). The Iranian guy ran to the bathroom also (I suspect sympathy puker) and I am left to try to check in a very green-looking bunch of patients. I felt like a mom. 

Speaking of puking—I cannot remember if I mentioned before but when you are eating with the Nepali the way that you complement the chef is by eating very quickly. The logic is that the better the food tastes, the faster you will eat it. I was with a Nepali family today (specifically took that assignment hoping I might be fed) and I was invited to eat after the IRCO appointment. The appointment went long, however, so I was running late and so in an attempt to both complement the cook and get back in time I shoveled food in my mouth at a prodigious rate. It was spicy deliciousness and I nearly choked on it—I wonder what Nepali culture says about throwing up on your food as a guest?

Speaking of IRCO (Immigrant and Refugee Community Organization)—I felt pretty cool this morning when I walked into IRCO with a young Eritrean mother (with the CUTEST damn baby I have ever seen and contemplated stealing) and I was greeted by at least four refugees in the waiting room. I am becoming known in the refugee world.

Speaking of this Eritrean Mom—I dropped this girl (really young—like Deborah’s age with a baby) off at IRCO at 9am. I was told she didn’t need a ride home. The same person who told me that then asked me, around noon, when I was planning to pick her up. I scrambled for a bit and the caseworker called IRCO to let the girl know we were coming—but she had disappeared. There was literally nothing we could do at that point so I uneasily put it from my mind. When I returned to IRCO around 2:30 for another client, the Eritrean girl came walking out of a room at IRCO with her baby and said “finished” (the only thing she can say in English beyond hello). I gaped at her, tried to figure out how to ask her in tigrian where she had been for the last five hours, gave up and just drove her home.

Speaking of questionable parenting—there is this Burmese kid who is supposed to arrive at the end of the month to live with his Dad. He is travelling alone and I have been asked to do a home assessment (basically making sure the kid has a place to live, will go to school, and won’t be trafficked as a child slave—I should not be trusted with this). Unfortunately, when we called the number for the father in the US we are informed that the father is living in Kansas to work right now—either for 2 weeks or 1 year (not sure which). But the Dad apparently insists that the kid can live with his friend/cousin/God knows because every Burmese refugee is someone’s cousin. We have had to call the national office in Washington and are scrambling to figure out what to do with this kid who is now officially an “unaccompanied minor” and may have been abandoned by both of his parents.

Cute little Kidlets & Social Security--Gangsta' style

This week has been a shmorgasboard (sp?) of cheap volunteering gratification--in other words, I have been taking adorable little kids to their first days of school. I walked each kid to his or her bus stop and watched them board the bus, then I raced ahead to the school and tried to meet the bus before the kid disembarked and then I would hold their hand and walk them to their classrooms. These kids are CUTE--we are talking like "Save the Children" advertisement cute, like I could make Ghaddaffi interrupt a rant and say "awwww!!!!!" And they are so terrified! Most of them do not speak any english and are overwhelmed by the masses of other children. For their sakes (and my love of cuteness) I am so glad that I could walk them through the process on their first day. Other little kids were not so lucky--I passed on crying burmese 3rd grader and another little boy who did not speak english and was too terrified to respond to any questions in any of the variety of languages the counselor was trying. My heart just went out to every one of these sweethearts (sorry to gush, but OMG precious!) and I wish I could have sat next to them all day.

My kids all got on and off the buses okay the first day but today (the second day) I got a frantic phone call from one girl's little sister reporting that the older sister had missed the bus and was stuck at school (a good 4 miles away). I drove to the school (45 minute drive during rush hour for me) and when I pulled up there were three ESL kids, counting my student, who had all been confused and missed the bus. A school administrator was near them and she said "oh my god, are you Sarah?!" like she couldn't believe I was a real person. Apparently the kids couldn't explain where they lived or how they were getting home but my kid kept repeating "Sarah is coming" and the administrator was left to pray I existed. It struck me then how bizarre my role is in these kids' lives--they don't know who I am, who I work for, or why exactly I am helping them but they have this inexhaustable supply of trust that I will be there when they need help. I ended up taking the lot of the kids home. One of them was a plucky turkmeni kid who spoke english pretty well and was a hilarious conversationalist the whole drive home (he at first refused to tell me that he was from turkmenistan because he was tired of people not knowing that it was a country in Asia--I liked this kid, he had moxy).

Today I also was supposed to take a Somali to the Social Security Administration to get a social security card. I picked him up from a friend's apartment (who had been resettled in 1996!) and headed out. I blame the fact that I was driving a 30 yr old Somali man wearing baggy jeans, a popped collar and a sideways hat (which he changed into from a button-up shirt and slacks just to go to the SSA office for--someone needs to talk to this guy about american stereotypes) for the fact that I forgot to check whether he had brought any documents with him. Apparently the SSA wants some form of ID and verification that you are a legal resident before they will give you a social security card......oops. I told the guy I'd have to take him back tomorrow.

Final story-- I have discovered that I love the Nepali. All of the families I have met are adorable and really really hospitable. I drove one family to a clinic and the one english-speaking family member talked my ear off the whole way there. He told me about how he loves to play music, how his favorite thing in the world is to see a group of children in matching uniforms heading off to school, how since "we are educated people" (meaning he and I) we know that there is only one God and that man created the fight over religion so he as a Hindu was still a brother to me, a Christian. The same guy also nearly passed out later when he had to have his blood drawn and spent several minutes explaining to me how much he hates needles (hey mom, you should be friends). I was just tickled pink by this family. In a few minutes I am going to the airport to pick up another Nepali family with my coworker. Said coworker told me that we have to take the 15 passenger van because every singly other Nepali in the city wants to go meet this family at the airport--that is the Nepali way. We will pick 12 of them to go with us and help get this new family settled tonight. I am really excited--I'll let y'all know how it goes!   

snapshots of my wednesday

I blatantly lied- I will not be picking up where I left off. Instead I am doing a short post of quick stories:

#1 I was speaking to a teenage girl today about safety around her apartment complex. She asked me if it was normal to hear sirens at night (I said it was) and then she asked me about serial killers. She apparently had heard a child crying last night (to be expected in a large apartment complex) and remembered hearing from "somewhere" that there was a serial killer in the United States who used a recording of a crying child to lure women outside to kill them. I in fact received the same chain email several years ago (one of those "forward to every woman you know!") and was as sure than as I am now that it is an elaborate urban legend. Trying to explain to someone with limited english that such stories are false, however, is difficult. I ultimately told her to talk to her father if she was in doubt (I assume he is more level-headed not being 17)

#2 I dropped of a nepali family at a clinic this afternoon after a completely silent 45 minute car ride (again, REALLY uncomfortable for me). While I was checking us in one of the women kept saying something to me but I didn't understand and I felt bad that I couldn't decipher what she needed. The receptionist jumped in to help and I found out that the woman was saying "stool sample," referring to the paper bag she was holding. But of course! Why didn't I guess that's what she was getting at?

#3 turns out that my FBI criminal background check has not gone through yet (speaking of the shockingly predictable-- there is a backlog of background request cases after AmeriCorps decided to require them for the first year). It could be weeks till I'm cleared and until then I cannot be left alone with "vulnerable populations" (read: children) for fear what I may do to them. Unfortunately, as a large part of my job involves school registration and homework-help, this has become a problem and I have had to take parents with me to inane school appointments and classroom tours with little or no explanation as to why I cannot just take their kids myself. (I didn't want to start the conversations "well, it is not safe for you to leave your kids with me just yet.....") Damn bureaucracy!   

As promised, a cast of characters in my house

The descriptions are in order of the pictures, right to left, top to bottom. Pictures are courtesy of an iphone app called "yearbook yourself" (best ap ever)

Carolyn—a 2^nd year JV from California. She has some killer dance moves and her hobbies include cross-stitching robots. She also tells excellent stories about the people she sees at the homeless drop-in center where she works. For her birthday we made a 6-layer rainbow cake (each layer a different color). She is the only person in the house with a car and lets anyone drive it (except for me because stories about learning to drive somehow came up and it was decided afterwards that it would be better if I didn’t borrow her car ever)

Joe—hails from Vancouver (WA not Canada) and is the lone male in our house but probably a bigger feminist than the rest of us combined. For his birthday he gave each of us knitted hats. He is particularly good at insulting banter (which is a critical requirement for me) and tells great stories along with Carolyn (he also works at a homeless drop-in center.)

Katie—from Chicago, another pre-med nutcase except she has already been accepted to medical school and so consequently is more sane than the rest of us. She is incredibly good at repeating stand-up comedy (which a lot of people think they are good at but ARE NOT). She works with the Wallace Medical Concern (free clinic for the uninsured) and cannot cook but makes up for it by washing dishes constantly. Definitely has a Midwest accent that makes me giggle inside.

Lauren—Another pre-med student, in a similarly terrifying place as me trying to apply for med school while volunteering. She has a particularly fantastic, off-color sense of humor that nicely compliments my own (I would repeat a few jokes she has told me here but I have heard a rumor that Grammy Ann is reading this—love you Grammy Ann!). She is from Long-Island and when talking about her mother unconsciously adopts a New York accent.  

Liz—A second year JV from Connecticut with one of the most extensive collections of top-40 pop music I have ever seen (also has a great voice). For her birthday we each wrote a haiku in her honor and performed them in a drum circle. (one of the haikus, appropriately was entirely comprised of Justin Beiber lyrics). She works in a shelter for victims of domestic violence and consequently cannot tell us where she goes everyday since its location is confidential-I am convinced she is really working for the CIA. She’s working in the cubicle across the lunchroom for me (good for time-wasting visits) with UNICA, a subsidiary of El Programa Hispano that addresses domestic violence in the latino community.  

Claire—originally from Chicago (also occasionally has an accent) but she does a fabulous Sean Connery impression (makes my day every time). She is working in the same building as me but two floors down (and consequently she’s not as important if I understand American business culture correctly) with transitional housing. She is also a 2^nd year JV and is our community’s book-keeper (she would not include “drug money” as part of our official budget though so I’m not sure she is trustworthy…..)

Julia—Also working with El Programa Hispano she is originally from Seattle. Julia is a GREAT cook, puts me to shame, and I have been conditioned to start salivating every time she walks towards the kitchen (does the name Pavlov ring a bell?). She is the only person I have met who actually enjoys reading great Latin American literature for fun and not just for edification (I am pretty sure that everyone else who says that is lying but I have seen Julia consume these books at an alarming rate).

Sarah--I hope you know me

First full week: still truckin' along, not yet a hipster

I survived my first full week of work with the refugees (as did they) but I was pretty damn tired by Friday afternoon. I think that my favorite story was from when I had to take an Iranian guy to bus training at the community center. Most of the refugees are still too nervous to take the bus right after training so I told him that I would be there to pick him up afterwards. But when I got there I found that he had taken a bus home already—I think public transportation in a strange city was a more attractive option than getting back into a car with me driving (I think the curb I jumped while pulling into the parking lot when I dropped him off was the final straw). So really I am providing a motivating force for refugees to be self-sufficient: sheer terror.

Later during the week I had to make a trip to DHS (dept of human services) with some Somalis. I picked up the first guy and discovered that he spoke NO English so we sat in complete silence for a while—which I have discovered makes me uncomfortable. I was relieved that we were picking up a second Somali because I figured that at least the two of them could talk but I forgot that it is inappropriate for unrelated Somali men and women to speak to each other so when we picked up the second lady the silence continued…..for 3 hours. [side story about that second woman: she was partially paralyzed and thus unable to walk. We had a wheelchair but she was on the 2^nd floor of the house (that was the floor with the bathroom). Our office being extremely busy I was not given any details about transportation so as I was driving there I had visions of having to fireman-carry this poor woman, abiyeh and all, down a flight of stairs so that she could get food stamps. Luckily it turns out she could hobble down stairs with the aid of a second person and the railing so her dignity and mine were mostly preserved] After that visit to DHS I would guess that approximately 70% of refugees have the debit card pin number of 1234.

I also officially met all of the children for whose welfare I am responsible (what the hell was the government thinking? Poor souls). I made sure they were all registered for school and met their parents. The school registration process was fun—it doesn’t matter whether someone is a refugee or not, teenagers are still teenagers and they are all anxious about starting school and are too cool to smile for their ID cards (till I made funny faces).

I have a lot more stories but unfortunately the library is about to close. I will try to type up a few posts during my lunch break this week (I only got to sit down and eat lunch once last week. This is a problem. I think the hardest part of my work this year will be telling people that I am too busy to add another errand to the list--tho I hear that I am genetically predisposed to not say no). Preview of things to come: my first home visit as a social worker, teaching knitting to the international community, and some alarming facts I have learned about the resettlement process. To be continued…..   

Why did the State of Utah grant me a license?

I succesfully drove around Portland for the second time today. I got to deliver games, crayons, and books to two somali children. That was a purely wonderful and fun experience that totally helped make up for the nightmarish first time that I drove in Portland. My first driving experience was assigned on Friday when I was asked to find an iranian man in a hotel by the airport and deliver a check (sounded like the start of a law and order episode to me too). He did not speak english but, I was assured, his daughter could translate. I had to take them to a nearby bank and to the grocery store. It seemed simple enough but I was terrified (hard to emphasize that last word enough). I was frantically looking up directions to and from these locations when the caseworker reminded me that the bank closed at three and that I had to get my butt in gear (no she didn't use those words--she is an older immigrant from the former USSR and tends to be a bit more dry in her humor). I grabbed my purse and ran to the stairwell. Unfortunately, I forgot to bring my keycard and ended up locked in the stairwell, unable to get the necessary car keys. I had to exit through the basement and then run back up to the fourth floor, ask to be buzzed in, and then fetch the keys to try again. When I got to the car I then set off the alarm system and spent approximately forty seconds cussing as I tried to turn of the alarm. With this inauspicious beginning, I was off. The car was, unfortunately, out of fuel so I had to detour to a nearby gas station where I was yelled at by an attendant for attempting to fill up my car myself (apparently in the state of Oregon it is illegal to pump your own gas--not even kidding). I made it to the hotel without incident but was too late to make it to the planned bank. luckily, my brother, after many threats, looked up directions to an alternative bank with later hours. I walked into the hotel and inquired at the front desk as to which room the father and daughter were inhabiting. Unfortunately the front desk had no record of a pair of iranians with an elaborate last name (details witheld to protect the innocent) and it took twenty minutes and three phone calls to the office to discover that they were, in fact, in the room right next to the fron desk. With a mixture of relief and trepidation I knocked on the door-and got no answer. I stood there for a while, wondering what to do, until a small middle-eastern man walked up to me with a confused look on his face. I surmised that this must be the father and my suspicions were confirmed when he acknowledged his name but couldn't respond to any of my questions. There was no sign of the daughter, and the father couldn't explain to me where she had gone. He indicated that I should wait in the lobby and kept repeating "five minutes." An hour later I started to get desperate and even tried to call my iranian friend from jr. high who I thought might speak farsi so that I could figure out where this missing girl was. The father seemed really aggitated and probably was sharing my visions of this girl dead in a ditch somewhere. Fortunately she was not dead--or at least managed to look very much alive when she finally walked up to us, full of apologies. She had apparently left the hotel in search of food (understandable since I am pretty sure that no one fed these two since they had gotten off the plane the night before). On our way to the bank, through an argument with a teller who was unfamiliar with Iranian passports, and through our shopping trip this teenage girl was firing questions at me about life in the United States. Specifically, she wanted to know whether people studied dance in the US, where one studied dance, how expensive was it, etc. I tried to be polite and answer her questions (though a lot of them stumped me to the point where she asked me if I was sure I was an american) but I felt more and more uneasy about giving her a false picture about life in the US for refugees. The hardest moment was when she pointed to a nearby house (a relatively nice one) and asked if that is the kind of place that they will live--the average refugee gets $339/mo in state assistance which is hardly enough to pay rent on a crummy apartment, let alone a house. Furthermore, this girl was about to turn 18 and would probably not even get to go to high school for a year before having to stop and get a job to help with finances--dance lessons were unlikely. I got home (several hours late) feeling pretty crummy. Working with the Burmese family in Salt Lake was so overwhelmingly positive- this was the first inkling I've gotten that this year is going to be a lot tougher.

In other (less depressing) news of Sarah's new experiences:
1. I managed to make an appointment with someone via telephone in Spanishy (for those of you who speak a second language, you understand how much harder it is to talk on the phone than in person). I think I succesfully made an appointment at least--I suppose I will find out on Thursday when I show up at their house whether or not they were expecting me.
2. I cleaned out a chicken coop. Our house was invited to help out some franciscan nuns around their home/farm/convent(?)/italian villa in the woods. It was gorgeous and a fun way to spend a saturday morning. My job was cleaning out the large chicken coops (not as awful as it sounds). The best part was that the nuns served us chickens for lunch--I appreciated directly benefiting from my work in some way and I appreciated getting even with the chicken community for the mess they made. I also saw a chicken lay an egg (totally justified the 4 wheelbarrows of chickenshit that I shoveled)! I knew theoretically that eggs came from chickens but I now have visual confirmation.

First Day

I started my work with Catholic Charities: Refugee Resettlement Program today. I have been inundated with information about intake procedures, legal requirements, housing standards, etc. and there is a small voice in the back of my head screaming. My face is smiling, however, and I mostly enjoyed today. For the larger portion of the day I tagged along with a case manager as he helped a few Bhutanese families. I was cooked Nepali food (they were Bhutanese/Nepali refugees--it is kinda confusing and that confusion is the reason they were forced from their homeland). Nepali food is BOMB!!! SO good!! I highly recommend it.

On the not-so-exciting side of things, I discovered that a large part of my job is to drive refugee families around the city of Portland in a 15 passenger van. This may really surprise those who know me well but I don't like driving--I am, in fact, really bad at it--and I have a less-than-adequate sense of direction. Poor, poor refugees--forced from their homes, ignored by international law and now subjected to Sarah driving an alarmingly large vehicle in a strange city not built on a grid-system. I am terrified (as should everyone else on the road in Portland). I have already had one or two offers from friends and family for a GPS, however, which I really think that I will accept.

As I type this I am the only person left in the office. It is only 4pm but most of the case managers came in before 7:30am today to finish up their case notes as today is the day of the office review performed by a state official (I picked a bad day to start). I was prompted to be unethical and log on the internet at work to post this note after reading over an orientation form concerning health checks. I kept reading about something called a "Class A condition" and I was confused and had to look up what that meant. It apparently refers to refugees with serious illnesses that would normally preclude them from admittance to the US. Naturally, I read on and found that Class B conditions, in turn, are those that "constitute a substantial departure from normal well-being." There was then a list of Class B conditions including substance abuse, treated tuberculosis and leprosy, sexually-transmitted diseases, and.....Pregnancy!!! HA!! To be fair, one could argue that pregnancy is a sexually transmitted infection but I am not sure that it counts as a substantial departure from normal well-being cause, you know, what's the alternative method? But all Class B conditions do require immediate treatment upon arrival (not really sure what the catholics are going to do about it.....) God bless the US Dept. of Health and Human Services.

Again, I will soon introduce my house. I am waiting on a spectacular piece of accompanying artwork to do so (you will understand when you see it) untill then, Au revoir!

Contextualized Potatoes

So I start work tomorrow and all is looking good so far. I still love my house (cast of characters to come later- the library is about to close) and I am excited to go do justice-y things. I tried to make dinner for the house tonight--curried potatoes--and epically failed (we are talking like Botswana Jambalaya failure). I kept explaining to my housemates that it doesn't normally look that way and that they didn't have to eat it. But then Joe sternly told me stop contextualizing the potatoes, and everybody cleaned their plates.

I do not have time to give a complete update (again, closing library) so I am going to leave you with a brief list of "observations" regarding the incomplete fulfillment of several expectations I had for this area.


Three ways in which I was misled about Portland by people back home:

First, it has not rained once. I was told to expect a deluge, a series of monsoons, a veritable biblical flood. Nothing. It has been gorgeous and sunny every day.

Second, I was repeatedly regaled with tales of how wonderful Mt. Hood is and how there is a marvelous view of it from our house (from my bedroom in fact). When I arrived I kept looking and looking but I could not find Mt. Hood. I began to believe that it did not exist. Then a roommate pointed it out from my room (see below--sorry it is sideways, I am struggling) see Mt hood? it is that tiny triangle between the trees. Biggest letdown ever.

Third, I have not seen nearly as many hipsters as I expected. I went downtown today and was on the lookout for hipsters (I had my net ready). I did see four or five gems but it was not in the quantity expected--I can see a greater concentrations of hipsters at the Mount on Sunday night. However, I have heard that they might avoid the sun so I am willing to wait and give them a second chance another day. I did see one guy on the bus next to me in tight pants, a wispy mustache and a band t-shirt with a fixed-gear bike and I almost yelled "OMG you're a hipster aren't you?!" but I didn't think I could handle the disdain in return.

That is all for now. I probably won't be able to post for a few days (the library closes early the second half of the week--WTF?) stay well untill then!!!

Snapshots from Orientation

Hello all! I am alive, well, and back from orientation. I have moved into a wonderful house/ ex-convent located in Gresham, Oregon (outside of Portland) across the street from a catholic parish (we have already received two boxes of donuts and a pie from the parishioners—among other things). I am living with 7 other people—aka the cast of characters who I will introduce later—and have not yet started working (Wednesday is the day). Orientation was a week-long affair in a lovely mountain camp. Given my propensity for making a story out of nothing I have way more stuff to share than time to do so. So I have assembled the following list:

Snapshots of orientation:

#1 DIDN’T throw up!!!! Might be the first serious transition I have endured without dramatically casting up my accounts. Don’t get me wrong, it was a hell of a lot of work. I was really tense and constantly on edge thinking about how big this year will be. It took constant journaling, daily mass, and a few lengthy meditation periods to keep my lunches in place. Not to toot my own horn—but TOOT! I am proud of myself. I even found beauty in the anxiety (only briefly—I haven’t ascended to sainthood yet—most of the week I spent cursing it).At one point I was sitting by the river—which went from calm and deep, through a brief waterfall and then was calm and deep again—and I wrote the following: “as I sit, in what I hope isn’t poison oak [it wasn’t], I realize that the part of the water that I want to watch is the turbulence as it falls through the rocks. The transition from one deep calm to the next is the beautiful part—that is what elicits poetry. I suppose the same will be in my life—the parts that are worth writing about are the transitions”

#2 During orientation we had WAY too many information sessions about conflict management and intentional communication. I was exhausted and my butt hurt (folding chairs from hell) so I didn’t get a lot out of it. Three moments particularly stood out:

                The Good: my community (I’ll explain them later) had a conversation about meals. Joe (the lonely male among eight women) said that he had recently read Omnivore’s Dilemma and was interested in seeking out food without corn or corn products in the interest of sustainable farming. I nearly shed a tear.

The Bad: one presenter made us practice conflict-resolution statements “When you x I feel y because z.” so I turned to Lindsay: [Me] “When you wear the color red I feel threatened because it is a sign of warning in nature.” [Lindsay] “When you make snarky comments during group presentations I feel reassured because I know I’m not the only bitch in the room.”

The WTF?: I didn’t realize that talking about what milk to buy was really necessary. I am easy going; I will drink skim, 1%, 2% and even whole milk when in Africa. But six of eight of my housemates said that they preferred almond milk. WTF? How does one milk an almond?

#3 Because JVC Northwest got a huge AmeriCorps grant this year they have changed the system of support for JVs (something about the federal government requiring JVC Northwest to give a minimum level of financial support to volunteers—psh! commies). Consequently we now get $700/mo. $550 of that automatically goes back to the community for rent, utilities and food but the rest we are left with to pay for transportation, healthcare and personal needs. But JVC Northwest is encouraging us to consider donating all of our money back to JVC except for our $80/mo stipend and a bus pass. Everyone in the community felt differently about it. In the end I decided to give it all back to JVC Northwest. I started thinking about what I could save the extra money for and decided that this was exactly what I didn’t want to think about. A few of my housemates chose the same (the few, the proud, the dirt-poor).

#4 This was the most somber moment of the week. A representative of the Oregon Province of Jesuits came to speak to us about a legal settlement that will be announced later in the week. The Province is officially bankrupt and is dividing its savings of $160 million among victims of sexual abuse from decades past. A lot of that money is apparently being sent to the poorer reservations where JVs are serving and no one is quite sure how that will impact the community. The priest also read to us the letter of formal, heartfelt apology that is being sent to each of the claimants. He was crying while speaking to us and it was really tense. I had never really understood how these things I had read about it the newspapers really impacts individuals. It was a lot to think about. One of the more random depressing thoughts that passed through my mind is that if we ever do discover an alien race in the next few centuries then my fond dream of the Jesuits secretly building a spaceship to send a mission probably won’t happen now that they’re broke (has anyone else read The Sparrow?)

A serious note to end on, but never fear! I have many more stories and insights to impart to your computer screens (whether or not you read them, they will be there). Feel free to text or facebook me—though I cannot promise how promptly I will answer. Hasta Luego!

PS hipster update: I am NOT yet a hipster but one of my roommates did knit us all hats and then my housemates taught me how to wear it like a hipster and informed me that it looked great. The process has begun…

Two Days and Counting....

I officially begin my year of service in two days. I decided to keep a blog for this year--like blogswana, though probably not as funny--so that my ubiquitous relatives can keep track of me without having to call my mom. I probably will also not be able to post as often because I won't have internet access in my house (all of that simple living we're supposed to be doing). For those of you who still aren't sure what JVC is, check out their website: http://www.jvcnorthwest.org/index.php
My placement is with Catholic Charities Refugee and Immigration Services. I don't know exactly what I will be doing but it will involve a lot of language barriers (my favorite).

I struggled with a name for this blog (again, not as easy to be funny as it was with Botswana). A close second was "JV C U in a year!" other than that there was also "Not-a-hipster-yet in Portland." Speaking of struggling, I need to go sort through my clothes to decide how much stuff I can stuff into one suitcase and still be living "simply." (my hair curlers were the first casualty. Edwin, my plant, was the second). So alas, I will have to say goodbye. Look for an update after August 13th when indoctrination.....I mean orientation, ends. Pray for me... (seriously though, not just a dry comment like my life is going to end. I think this will rock, but there is no way I will be able to do it on my own)