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.

$4.73 and 45 minutes

10/08/13

Every other Tuesday is production day at Street Sense.

Which means I'm normally staring at a computer screen 10 a.m. to 5 p.m. or later if I can stay.  I edit stories, design the layout of some of the newspaper pages and write last-minute news briefs.

Production has to be my favorite day.

It's tiring, thrilling, rewarding - all the elements of a well-spent day.

The morning began in the normal fashion, with multiple cups of pumpkin spice coffee (courtesy of my Mom - she's the best), and layout design.  I learned how to work with Photoshop.  Always a new challenge.

After a measly one page designed and a news brief written about mandatory insurance through the Affordable Care Act *cough*boring*cough* I rolled out to City Hall to cover an event.

It was the first meeting of a special task force assembled to discuss the future of the CCNV (Center for Creative Non Violence) shelter - the largest, and only federally run shelter in the city.  The years have taken their toll and of course the shelter needs some work, so leaders of many organizations related to homelessness and housing gathered to get it going.

Coincidentally, the first woman I met, Starda, was a resident of the very shelter that went through recent lawsuits and my editor had told me to write a story about.  I had tried contacting the shelter unsuccessfully, and needed some human voices for my story.

During the meeting, another homeless woman, Shacona, stood up and accused the shelter of mistreatment, mentioning that she had filed a lawsuit against it.

Bam.

I found another source.

I stayed late to talk to Shacona, and man could she and her boyfriend Eric talk!  I thought they were never going to let me leave.

I rushed back to the office as soon as I could break free, determined to stay late and help with more layout design.
"I'm hungry!  I'm huuuuuungry!"
The voice was loud, obnoxious, slurred.
The body from which it came was a 40-something, black man in a black hoodie and jeans, holding out a soft drink cup, rattling the change inside, sitting right outside the Church of the Epiphany gate.
I rushed passed him to get back into the office and back to work.
A twinge of guilt tugged at my heart.  I didn't even make eye contact, or smile at him, or say a kind word.
No matter; I'm broke.  I can't give money to every homeless person on the street.  But within a few seconds I made up my mind that if he were still there when I left for the evening, I would buy him dinner.

No sooner had I put my backpack down in the office than my editors told me I could take off for the day - I'd done enough good work.  I was willing to stay late, but they released me to go home early.
Just outside the gate, that loud, obnoxious, slurred voice greeted me again.
"Do you want something to eat?" I said.  "Are you hungry?"
I noticed he was wearing no shoes.  Just dirty socks.
"Yes," he said, looking me in the eyes.
"Ok, let's get some dinner.  What do you want?"
"Can I have some pizza?" he smiled, revealing four missing top teeth.
His tone of voice struck me - so childlike.  So joyful.
"Sure, let's go find some pizza," we began walking to a pizza place just down the block.
His name was Nathan.
I shook his hand.
I bought him a slice of pepperoni and an orange soda.  Just before I paid the cashier, he asked, "Are you sure?" with a genuine, cautious, grateful strain of hope.
"Of course I'm sure."  I paid $4.73.
I sat down with him while he ate his food, but I wasn't hungry.
He was so excited to have company that in 45 minutes he only ate half of the slice.  He'd lived in DC his whole life and wanted to know what things were like in California.  I compared Oakland to Anacostia, the high cost of living in San Francisco to that of the Capitol Hill neighborhood, and the LA Times to the Washington Post.
It was like speaking to an excited child.  He shook his head energetically when he got into telling me a story; I laughed and held back the tears that threatened to flow.

Mental illness or retardation are my best guess - the heartbreaking reason for his homelessness.  He seemed disgusted by kids selling drugs, so I can't imagine he was a junkie.
"Where do you stay, Nathan?"
"On the streets."
No shelter, no housing.  But he was trying to get an apartment.  Not in the projects, he specified.  A real apartment.  But how could he get an apartment, when he didn't even have shoes?  How will he even stay warm when winter sets in?
I wondered if those four missing teeth had been knocked out of his mouth by a strong blow.  He looked less capable of surviving on the streets than myself.
The people in the restaurant looked at him with distrust.  If I left him in there alone, the manager would probably kick him out.  So I let two buses go by.  It's not like I needed to be home immediately anyway.
I showed him pictures of my parents and my sisters.  He had a hard time believing that I was half black.  He was excited on my behalf that I was the auntie of a baby niece.

Nathan waited by the bus stop with me, continuing to tell me his stories.  The D6 bus pulled up behind the W17 and I was caught up in conversation so I didn't see it until the driver was pulling away.
I stood up and yelled, "Wait!" waving my arms.
The bus driver gave me the stank-eye and made a dismissing motion.
Nathan apologized, thinking it was his fault I missed the bus.  It wasn't his fault, I assured him.  But I had to catch the Metro, so I patted him on his skeletal shoulder and said goodbye, stay safe.
I took the Metro to Union Station, preparing to walk 10 minutes beyond that to get back to my apartment.  However, fare cards include free transfers within the hour, and I saw a D6 at the stoplight.  I walked to the next bus stop and waited, grateful I wouldn't have to walk the entire way home.
It was the same bus.
The driver recognized me - his face displayed the shock.
"That's what you get for leaving me behind!"
Yes.  I said it out loud.  To his face.
No regrets.
Like a boss.
He was dumbfounded.  If there was ever a moment to believe in human teleportation, that was it (cred goes to my boyfriend for coming up with that one).

I don't know if anything could have made my day better.  It cost me $4.73 out of my wallet, and 45 minutes of my hectic day.
And it was worth a thousand times more.
I'm positive that I benefited more from him than he did from me.
Three days per week, I work with homeless vendors through Street Sense.  With time, I'm learning compassion, and kindness, and the value of each person's story.  But every day I pass by dozens of God's most precious creation lying on the streets.
I don't have the money to feed them all.  I don't have the time to talk to them all.
But I spent $4.73 and 45 minutes on Nathan, and that shed to the ground a bit more of the stubborn selfishness surrounding my heart, like the autumn leaves I rarely experienced in California.