This is Reggie Black.
My favorite Street Sense vendor (seller of the street paper).
He's in his late 20's and has been homeless since 2007.
He's in his late 20's and has been homeless since 2007.
On my second day interning at Street Sense, Reggie came up to me and said, "I've got it. You're Poison Ivy."
"What? Why do you say that?"
"It's your hair," he said decidedly.
I don't even have red hair. I don't see any resemblance between me and the leaf-clad temptress that can't fully be classified as a super hero or a super villain.
I've always thought of her as the villain, but Reggie assured me that everything bad she did was to protect the environment...and that was noble. (Did I strike him as having evil tendencies?)
Each time he would come to the office to use the computers, or attend a writing workshop, or inform us of the latest homeless advocacy meeting, he would address me:
"Hello, General Ivy. Agent Black reporting for duty."
Never out of character for a moment, Reggie invented all sorts of laboratories where plants were being turned into weapons of mass destruction and instruments of mass healing...all run by little old me.
It was all I could do to play along and try to stay in character. I know nothing about botany...or comic book characters for that matter. I was just trying to keep my head above water and navigate living in a new city, interning for the first time, and figuring out a new reporting beat.
Reggie never forgets an intern, even though the turnover rate is about every three months. To him, they embody a favorite hero of his, come to life from the well-worn pages of a comic book.
Ramanda is Shadow Cat.
Ramanda is Shadow Cat.
Dennis is Iceman.
Nkongho is Storm.
Street Sense was definitely not a typical journalism internship. My friends were creating slideshows of Kate Upton, or going to briefings at the White House.
I was working sales every week---answering the phone when vendors would want to buy papers from us to sell on the street, walking downstairs (sometimes 20 times in a shift), and conducting the sales transaction.
I was editing poetry, short stories, and opinion pieces written by vendors to be published in the paper.
I was reporting meetings at city hall regarding the future of a historical shelter, and homeless services in the city.
I was designing the layout of newspaper pages, analyzing details and tweaking it until the pages were perfect.
I was interacting with homeless people on a daily basis---hearing their stories, writing their stories, becoming a part of their stories and they a part of mine.
Cynthia was our resident environmentalist (she would much sooner be Poison Ivy than I would be). Her opinion pieces for the paper were always an encouragement to take care of the world we live in.
She's a genius.
Her brain operates at a rate I could only dream of.
"I love physics more than I love my drugs," she sighed one day. She and I shared many a conversation about Jesus, about the power of hatred to destroy lives, about the power of love to heal emotional wounds and bring peace.
Cynthia is not a woman to be messed with. She is not a victim of her circumstances. The last two weeks I was there all she could talk about was this man who had cut into her tent and tried to attack her.
Her language was quite colorful, as you can imagine.
She had a machete and told the interns quite explicitly of what she would do if this man ever tried to hurt her again.
I, for one, took her seriously.
She's a strong woman, she knows self-defense, she can take care of herself on the streets. But so many homeless women can't. So many have been molested, abused, abandoned.
"A lot of homeless women ride the bus all night because at least it's safe and warm," Cynthia told me.
I can't imagine living in a state of constant fear like that. It's no wonder that so many homeless people develop mental illnesses.
I also can't imagine the calloused, uncaring spirit that prompts people, even Christians, to say that homeless people are on the street by choice...they all just want to do drugs...if you give them money, they'll only use it on alcohol.
Whatever spirit put these thoughts into the minds of Christians is not from God.
"...Truly, I say to you, as you did it to one of the least of these my brothers, you did it to me." ~Matthew 25:40
Rikea was kicked out of her home.
Sybil lost her job and couldn't pay rent.
Jermale was mentally ill and ostracized from society.
These vendors cannot be categorized and dismissed as less than human. The overwhelming source of hurt for homeless people is being dismissed. They understand that not everyone can give them money. But everyone can smile. Everyone can say hello. Everyone has a minute to talk.
But rarely is it done.
That would be enough to make me lose my mind. How would you fare if the world acted like you didn't exist?
This semester has been one trial after another.
Many times I have questioned why God brought me here and what in the world He is doing in my life.
But some of my best moments have been the conversations with the beautiful homeless people I've met. Those moments, those are priceless.
I wouldn't trade them for the glory of a million press briefings at the White House.
Working with the homeless is sometimes a thankless task.
I slaved away to write stories, and vendors got mad at me when the computers in the office malfunction...as if I were some computer wiz, able to fix every tech problem.
Working with the homeless is sometimes a draining task.
I left work every day exhausted, three cups of coffee down, hoping that I'd get a few hours of sleep to make the next day a little easier.
Working with the homeless is sometimes a hopeless task.
I attended meeting after meeting of political mumbo-jumbo while the looming, relentless crisis of homelessness never shrunk or improved in a visible way. What value could my work really have in the grand scheme of things?
Its value was in the homeless vendors who had a forum to voice their opinions and publish their creative writing.
Its value was in giving hope to a few---that someone cares about their plight, that I care about their plight.
Nkongho is Storm.
Street Sense was definitely not a typical journalism internship. My friends were creating slideshows of Kate Upton, or going to briefings at the White House.
I was working sales every week---answering the phone when vendors would want to buy papers from us to sell on the street, walking downstairs (sometimes 20 times in a shift), and conducting the sales transaction.
I was editing poetry, short stories, and opinion pieces written by vendors to be published in the paper.
I was reporting meetings at city hall regarding the future of a historical shelter, and homeless services in the city.
I was designing the layout of newspaper pages, analyzing details and tweaking it until the pages were perfect.
I was interacting with homeless people on a daily basis---hearing their stories, writing their stories, becoming a part of their stories and they a part of mine.
Cynthia was our resident environmentalist (she would much sooner be Poison Ivy than I would be). Her opinion pieces for the paper were always an encouragement to take care of the world we live in.
She's a genius.
Her brain operates at a rate I could only dream of.
"I love physics more than I love my drugs," she sighed one day. She and I shared many a conversation about Jesus, about the power of hatred to destroy lives, about the power of love to heal emotional wounds and bring peace.
Cynthia is not a woman to be messed with. She is not a victim of her circumstances. The last two weeks I was there all she could talk about was this man who had cut into her tent and tried to attack her.
Her language was quite colorful, as you can imagine.
She had a machete and told the interns quite explicitly of what she would do if this man ever tried to hurt her again.
I, for one, took her seriously.
She's a strong woman, she knows self-defense, she can take care of herself on the streets. But so many homeless women can't. So many have been molested, abused, abandoned.
"A lot of homeless women ride the bus all night because at least it's safe and warm," Cynthia told me.
I can't imagine living in a state of constant fear like that. It's no wonder that so many homeless people develop mental illnesses.
I also can't imagine the calloused, uncaring spirit that prompts people, even Christians, to say that homeless people are on the street by choice...they all just want to do drugs...if you give them money, they'll only use it on alcohol.
Whatever spirit put these thoughts into the minds of Christians is not from God.
"...Truly, I say to you, as you did it to one of the least of these my brothers, you did it to me." ~Matthew 25:40
Rikea was kicked out of her home.
Sybil lost her job and couldn't pay rent.
Jermale was mentally ill and ostracized from society.
These vendors cannot be categorized and dismissed as less than human. The overwhelming source of hurt for homeless people is being dismissed. They understand that not everyone can give them money. But everyone can smile. Everyone can say hello. Everyone has a minute to talk.
But rarely is it done.
That would be enough to make me lose my mind. How would you fare if the world acted like you didn't exist?
This semester has been one trial after another.
Many times I have questioned why God brought me here and what in the world He is doing in my life.
But some of my best moments have been the conversations with the beautiful homeless people I've met. Those moments, those are priceless.
I wouldn't trade them for the glory of a million press briefings at the White House.
Working with the homeless is sometimes a thankless task.
I slaved away to write stories, and vendors got mad at me when the computers in the office malfunction...as if I were some computer wiz, able to fix every tech problem.
Working with the homeless is sometimes a draining task.
I left work every day exhausted, three cups of coffee down, hoping that I'd get a few hours of sleep to make the next day a little easier.
Working with the homeless is sometimes a hopeless task.
I attended meeting after meeting of political mumbo-jumbo while the looming, relentless crisis of homelessness never shrunk or improved in a visible way. What value could my work really have in the grand scheme of things?
"All the interns are superheroes," Reggie said. "They run things around here. What would we do here without them?"
Its value was in the District residents who became more aware of homeless issues through reading the paper.Its value was in the homeless vendors who had a forum to voice their opinions and publish their creative writing.
Its value was in giving hope to a few---that someone cares about their plight, that I care about their plight.
