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.

25 Hours in NYC

The view from my front seat in the top tier of the Megabus

Having never been to the East Coast before, I'm trying to see everything my tight budget and my busy schedule will allow.  A quick trip to Manhattan for fall break (October 11-12) fit nicely into that scheme.  So one of my roommates, Katherine, and I grabbed Megabus tickets for $38.50 round-trip  after figuring out that we could crash in my friend Jasmine's apartment at NYU for the night.
We rolled out on Friday morning, sleeping as much as we could during the 4 hour and 45 minute bus ride.  As soon as I could see the skyscrapers, I wanted to sing "Empire State of Mind" by Jay-Z and Alicia Keys...it was subsequently stuck in my head for the entire weekend.  We arrived at 2 p.m.

We got our lunch at a hot dog stand of course, and then walked 1.6 miles from the bus stop to Washington Square park (with my heavy duffel bag in tote).
Class schedules and miscommunications are funny things.
Katherine and I sat in the park for a good 45 minutes before finally meeting up with Jasmine and walking another 15 minutes to her apartment (I burned a lot of calories that weekend).

The park was pretty to look at during our waiting time anyway

By then, it was just about dinner time.  We mapped out the places we wanted to see and the best time to see them (that night or the next morning), and headed on the subway to East Harlem - because obviously the best food is found in the hole-in-the-wall restaurants in the ghetto!
The subway was jammed pack.  I take the metro frequently in DC and I haven't witness anything close to this.  People were literally pressed against me on every side.  It was a challenge just to hang onto one of the dirty metal bars to keep myself from falling over on someone every time the train screeched to a stop and blasted off.
And it smelled nasty.
Jasmine, Katherine and I determined that it wasn't worth it to try to go anywhere during rush hour.  Every the train stopped to change passengers, I was almost swept off the the shoving crowd.  It was like a Rubik's Cube...to move one person, 10 other people had to move.

Katherine, myself and Jasmine living that terrifying metro life

We picked a legit Italian Restaurant (of course I can't remember the name), and Liz was the most hilarious waitress (I remembered her name!).  She recognized our status as broke college students and gave us free sodas and an appetizer.  And that pizza was on point.
We tipped her well.
Jasmine left for small group, so Katherine and I went to explore Central Park...alone, at night, because journalists fear no danger!
Mace in hand and my boyfriend's warning to be careful in mind I walked the unlit dirt paths to see what Central Park had to offer.

City lights one of the ponds in Central Park

It was phenomenal, and we only had time to scope out a tiny portion of it.  And no, we didn't get attacked, but we did hear some guys howling like hooligans and I braced myself to go all crazy-black-woman on them *for those of you who don't know me, I'm not racist, I'm half black*.

Time Square was the next stop on our whirlwind trip.  I spent way more money on souvenirs than I intended...
This is some of what I saw:

 

Rebel Wilson might be my favorite actress. But no, I don't or endorse watch Super Fun Night.
The blinding city lights were overwhelming - in a good way, if that's possible.  In that crazy night I thrived, and added myself to the ranks of fanatics that love New York.  It would be impossible for me to not love that city.

In that moment, I had to question everything that had led me to this place.  All semester I've been struggling with living in D.C., missing home, wondering if I had made a mistake, trying to discern what is my calling in life.
I wish I could say that I've got all that figured out now, but that would be a lie.  There's something about D.C. that I just don't like.  And something about New York that I love.  I recognize that in order to fulfill my dreams, I will have to do work that I don't love, but I can still find joy and contentment in that.
Reporting is hard work.  There are incredible blessings and benefits from it.  However, there have been many days I wondered why I was even doing it.  Perseverance is key, and although I don't understand God's plan and purpose in this moment, I'll be able to look back and see what he did in my life through this experience.

After a restless night on a linoleum floor (beggars can't be choosers...my alternative was sleeping on a park bench), we hit the city with our agenda - Ground Zero, Lady Liberty, Chinatown, Little Italy, bookstores, and bus back to D.C.

This hipster coffee shop woke me up and satisfied my artsy-fartsy appetite

Ground Zero. Never forget. Always remember.

The Statue was closed due to the government shutdown and conveniently opened the day after I left 

Haha no, I did not buy this tshirt...but I was tempted...

I got my first legit boba tea of the semester in Chinatown!  I was so excited to drink it though that I forgot to get a picture...
Every Thai food restaurant that we tried to eat at was closed.  They all opened late, and half of them had work going on inside.  So after getting all our hopes up, we ate Chinese instead.
The Christmas store in Little Italy made me long for December, my favorite time of year.  I almost started listening to Christmas music, but I resolve to stay strong! ...at least until mid-November.
Before we left, I picked out 7 old books from used bookstores.  Not sure when I'll have time to read them, but for years to come I will remember them as the books I got in New York.

On our way out of the city we passed by Comic-con, right across the street from our bus stop.  Katherine nerded out and did her reporter thing of getting as close to the action as possible, snapping photos.  I waited for the bus, exhausted, eating a pumpkin pie doughnut, ready to sleep.
As I loaded my even heavier duffel on the bus, the attendant said, "So, is there any way that we could become best friends?"
What.
I only had energy to smirk and say, "Nope.  I already have a best friend."  Two, actually. *Shout out to Matthew and Bitsy!  Miss you both!*
The attendant, broken-hearted I'm sure, starting singing that Drake song: "No new friends, no new friends, no no new..."
Sometimes my life is funny.
I slept my way back to D.C. on the bus.  But I have a feeling I'll find a way to make it back to the Big Apple before I leave the East Coast.

$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.

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.