My Semester as a Superhero

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.

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.

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?

"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.

It's official - I'm a journalist

Time flies.
These past two weeks have been a whirlwind and I need more coffee.
Lots of coffee.

On September 10, I began my internship at Street Sense.  As soon as I stepped into the tiny office in the beautiful Church of the Epiphany, I was put to work editing the articles.  It was production day - that biweekly day of chaos before the paper goes to the press.
I stared at the computer from 10 a.m. to 5 p.m. editing errors.  And I loved it!  It was actually strange how much I loved it.  I'm thinking my calling in life is probably copy editing more than it is news reporting.

Selfies in the tiny office....because my editor wasn't there and I was dressed nicer than normal.

The memory of 9/11 filled the minds of most Americans, including the Street Sense vendors (homeless men and women who buy papers from us and then sell them on the street to make a living).  Every Wednesday morning is the writer's workshop and there were several vendors in the office on 9/11 discussing the anniversary of the largest attack on American soil in any of our lifetimes, writing about how it made them feel.
They always like the interns.
We interns are fresh, innocently ignorant fools (no offense to any interns to whom that description does not apply) - a new audience for their stories.
To lighten the serious topic of mental illness - a common condition among those experiencing homelessness - Jacqueline told me a story about a time when she mistook a plastic bag on the sidewalk for a giant crab.
She credited God for holding her sanity together during her roller-coaster life on the streets.

I'm amazed at how my stereotypes of homeless people have been so quickly shattered.  Despite my prior experience in homeless ministries, I had mental blocks through which I interpreted my interactions with the homeless.
Street Sense wrecked those blocks.

There is no typical homeless person.
Jeffrey is a Conservative Republican.
Cynthia loves physics more than she loves her drugs.
Carlton is enraged that he found out through facebook that his son got in a car accident.
Reggie calls me Green Ivy and is the biggest comic book nerd I've ever met.

These people have already brightened my life, and I've only known them for two weeks!

On the 17th I interviewed the executive director of the Central Union Mission at the site of their new building under construction.  Like a genius, I wore sandals to a construction site.  They made an exception for me and I still got to see the first floor of the building.
Oh, and I rocked that hard hat, reflective vest, and those safety glasses they made me wear.  Neon yellow is definitely my color.

Not.

The historic Gales School building - new location for the Central Union Mission.

I'm blessed to work with a wide variety of interns as well.  One of the girls in my program (WJC), a fellow-Californian, is at Street Sense as well, so we commute together every day.  One intern is from Germany; another from Sweden.  Two others are semi-locals.  Our various experiences come together in a blend not unlike the diversity that America is prized for.

It's difficult to be an outspoken political conservative and work with the homeless at the same time.  When I was removed from the situation, it all seemed so black and white.  If you work hard, and make wise choices, you will succeed in life.  But the American dream isn't all it's cracked up to be, and the problem of homelessness isn't that simple.  Compassion goes a long way.  I keep silent and listen more than I try to convince others of my point of view.
My political views have by no means drastically shifted, but my time at Street Sense will influence my thinking for life.

Every day, my beliefs are challenged.
Every day, I'm faced with the results of evil in the world and the incredible beauty found in compassion.
Every day, I'm grateful that God placed me at Street Sense.

And every day, I contemplate my growing need for coffee.  The pumpkin spice latte and incoming Fall weather are only adding to this problem.

Not in Kansas (errr, California) Anymore

DC was never in my plans.
I'm a California girl - I love my state and always will.  It's easier to picture myself living in West Africa than Washington, DC.  But here I am.
My print media professor, Dr. Simons sprung the idea on me midway through last spring semester.  The Washington Journalism Center (WJC) had a record low admittance of students for the Fall 2013 semester and was asking him to send students.  So he started working to convince me.

Honestly, it didn't take that much for me to realize it was a good idea.  Simons is my favorite and most difficult of professors.  He's pushed me to angry tears, caused me to pull all-nighters to complete his hefty homework assignments, and made some of the most sarcastic jokes at my expense.  But he's also challenged me to grow in more ways than I thought possible and so I kept taking more of his classes.  I know that a compliment from him goes a long way.
If he thinks I can handle DC, then I can handle it.

Politics drive me crazy.  So the whole idea of living and working in the political capitol was an ironic scenario.  By the grace of God, I landed an internship with a non-profit organization I can get behind with all my crazy passion - Street Sense - a news paper about inner-city issues and the homeless.
I'll begin working there in just a few short days.
In the streets, interacting with the homeless, hearing their stories, seeing the world through their eyes...that's where I want to be.  That's where I will make a difference - giving their cries a voice, displaying their beauty, searching for hope alongside them.

Two weeks have flown by.  Between Journalism classes, figuring out public transportation, and grocery shopping, I've had a bit of time to explore this great place I call my temporary home.

I almost saw Obama speak at the Lincoln memorial....if only I had gotten out of class earlier and there hadn't been a million people.

THE MOST epic view in the city is from the top of the Old Post Office. 

DC's Chinatown ain't got nothin' on SF's.  Bay Area pride!

Visit the monuments at night - it's 1,000x better!

The WWII monument is my favorite, for obvious reasons.

Sometimes I think I made a mistake in coming here.  My heart is torn between so many places and people.  When I'm missing home...counting down the days...frustrated with class...or generally having a hard time trusting God, I just go to my roof.  Eight blocks from the Capitol and surrounded by God's glory.  How can I be discontent?  How can I be ungrateful?  How can I doubt that He brought me here for His plan and purpose?  In that, I'll live.