Dear Community,

The Jesuit Volunteer Corps is grounded on four values: spirituality, community, simple living, and social justice. Each value is essential to JVC's mission and no one principle is more important than another. They are all interrelated. A year ago, when I was sitting in my JVC Orientation being introduced to these values that would "ruin" my life, a presenter said that the pillar of community would be the hardest to continue to live out once my service year was done.

It has been a little over a month since I left D.C. and my service year. I see what that presenter meant about the challenge of remaining in community, but I find myself disagreeing with him anyway.
Everything in the past month has been about community.

On the morning I left D.C., I hugged my housemates, who I had created a community with unlike any I had ever known. As I walked through airport security, I could not imagine living life without them. I landed in the West Coast a few hours later (traveling through time zones is rough) just in time to join my family at the annual Hawai'ian cultural festival run by the halau hula that I have danced in since elementary school. From community to community.

A week later, I hopped on a plane to LAX. I sat with two older women who listened in eager anticipation as I told them why I was flying to California. They gave me excited pieces of advice on where to go, what to do, and their own favorite memories. The time passed quickly and we all left the plane with smiles. Community.

At baggage claim, I found myself wrapped in the arms of my older cousin, Mile (pronounced "Me-lay"). It had been nine years since we had seen each other and she was visiting the US for the first time from Australia. Hours later, we were with our older cousin Triva and finally together, our trio began a three-week road trip that covered Las Vegas, San Diego, Portland, and countless places in between. Along the way we collected friends who made the trip unforgettable. For the first time in months, I got to speak my first language, Samoan, freely at any time. I was people who knew everything about me, who I didn't have to explain my cultural and ethnic background to. My cousins got me, and through laughter and love, they eased away the heaviness of my D.C. goodbyes. They were my community.

 Now, I'm home and instead of feeling an absence of community, I am aware of how many communities I am blessed to have. It is true, maintaining my relationship with my D.C. communities are harder. I miss coming home every night to my six housemates. It is bittersweet to see pictures from Joseph's House and not be there to celebrate with my community. Being away from D.C. during the 50th anniversary on the March on Washington was awful. But, thanks to modern technology, those communities are only a phone call, a Facebook message, a Skype chat, a live 24-hour news stream away. There are planes and trains and cars to reach that home.

And back in this home, I have my family, West Coast culture, college friends, service communities. They are different communities, but they are still my communities. Both teach me that it is not distance that challenges intimacy, but the intentional effort that you must put into it to maintain closeness. Relationship takes a lot of work. It is hard, yet I know that I need community. I'll put the work in.

Dear Amy and Anand

It had been a full day, this last day. I had woken up that morning in semi-darkness after a night of blessed rest. For weeks, I had not been sleeping well. The DC heat certainly played a part in my insomnia, but most of my restlessness was from anxiety, racing thoughts, and shock. After a year of being certain that I would remain in DC, that I belonged no where nearly as much as I belonged to this city, I had abruptly and jarringly realized that what I really needed was to go home. The decision was the right one, yet as I laid in bed that morning, I couldn't help but feel like a failure. Maybe if I stay in bed, I won't actually have to say goodbye to Joseph's House, I thought. Maybe no one will notice if I just don't show up. Maybe if I close my eyes and sleep a little bit longer, I will wake up and be strong enough to stay . . .

I turned my Pandora onto shuffle and got ready for work at Joseph's House one more time. I took deep breaths, encouraging myself to be fully present to this precious last day. I began to relax and hum along to the music. And then it came on: Bill Wither's "Lean on Me," the Joseph's House anthem. My Krista cohort sang a rendition of the song right before I began my service year, and then weeks later I heard it played for the first time at a resident memorial. It has played 17 times since then. As I walked out the door, "Seasons of Love" from the musical RENT began: 525, 600 minutes, 525, 000 moments so dear, 525, 600 minutes, how do you measure, measure a year? I shook my head and laughed. I can't even make this stuff up. This is so my life.

As my last day at Joseph's House was winding to an end, I sat in the living room. I have always admired how the light in the living room seems to capture the feeling of the whole house. On memorial afternoons, the living room is soft and quiet, like the candles we light to honor someone's spirit. During breakfast, when the dining room across the hall is overflowing with laughter, food, and conversation, the living room practically shines as the morning sun fills every corner with light. For me, as if to reflect the ending of my time at Joseph's House, the light looked like dusk. It was only 4 pm, yet it looked as if the sun was setting in the room. There were shadows and the feeling of calm permeated the air. It had been a day of blessings being lavished upon me, and as I sat on a comfy couch, I was overwhelmed by how loved I am.

To my right sat Amy, her hand holding mine, my head upon her shoulder. It was a posture that we have sat in since the beginning of our time together, as natural as the deep breathing that we had to learn how to do. On my left sat Anand, one hand holding coffee in his favorite mug (that I had made sure to wash for him), the other hand draped lightly across my shoulder. Anand's last day had been weeks before, but he had returned for mine. That was natural, too. We sat there as the shadows deepened, laughing, talking, with no space in between us.

Each year Joseph's House has 4 year-long volunteers from different sending organizations, but this year it was just us. Amy from Discipleship Year (founded by the church that helped start Joseph's House), Anand from AmeriCorp's Washington AIDS Partnership. Amy is always spear-heading a new project or activity. She is selfless and always asks the deeper questions. Anand always knows how to put people at ease. He sees the truth in situations and is able to bring things into a fresh perspective. Individually, each of us are great, but together, we have been pretty fantastic. From the beginning, they have been my dearest friends. No one else quite understands what it means to be a young, full-time volunteer at Joseph's House right now except for them. Anand and I experienced our first death at the house together, Amy and I our first last breath. We learned how to cook with Crisco and how to parallel park the house van together. We got lost in DC and took cookies to the firefighters together. We have changed diapers together, gotten frustrated together, cried together (okay, fine, I did most of the crying), celebrated together. When I think of my time at Joseph's House, I cannot think of it without Amy and Anand.

Somehow, we just fit one another. No drama, no competition, no resentment. We apologized quickly if we hurt one another. We humbly asked for help when we needed the others. We loved without needing to know everything. We just wanted to be together. Amy and I would get tea after dates to tell each other everything. Anand would come over to my house just to check in. The three of us went to a kite festival, happy hours, dinners, and West Virginia just to be with one another. We even have our own dance move. We recognized the unique nature of our relationship and were intentional about fostering it.

And now, it seemed fitting that I was ending my time at Joseph's House in the living room, leaning on them. Months earlier in that room, we had done an activity in which each of us took turns embodying the mind, body, or spirit of the others. That is when the space disappeared between us. We know each other uncannily well, and I know it is because at one time Amy, Anand, and I were literally one.

Dearest Amy and Anand, thank you for knowing all of me so intimately and yet still choosing to call me your beloved. Thanks for knowing when to say something and knowing when to hold me. Thanks for the hours in the kitchen, and the days by bedsides. For the good times we wanted to live in forever, and the hard times when we didn't think we could get through. We made it, and I know I could not have gotten through my dark times without both of you coming alongside me and believing for me that I would be okay, until I could believe it for myself. I consider it one of the highest honors of my life being able to be your friend. Both of you are incredible healers, with souls that challenge, enrich, and better everyone you touch. Every day, your shining examples pushed me to a more compassionate, hard-working, loving version of myself. I am a better person because I was a part of you two. Many bows to who are, who you will become, and who you will always be.

With all my mind, body, and spirit,

I love you.

How to Say Goodbye

Yesterday was the goodbye lunch for the three year-long volunteers at Joseph's House. Amy, Anand, and I (or the "Bad News Bears" as we affectionately have called ourselves at times) sat in the midst of our staff members as we were honored with hopes, gifts, memories, and in true J. House fashion, incredible food. I always knew this time was coming. I always knew this experience was never mine to keep living forever. Yet as I rested in the love and pride surrounding me and my two friends (also known as the "little littles" apparently) I couldn't help but wonder, when did this end?

My friend Tyler, whose blog is on the list on the left, had an idea to write letters at the end of his service year to those who had impacted him. I would also like to do this. Perhaps it might be a sweet way to help me say goodbye. I am not leaving Washington, D.C., in August, but I am leaving an important chapter in my life and though this has been a year of goodbyes, this one is particularly difficult. How do you say goodbye to the best year of your life? This is a way.

According to the Sorting Hat

I have been thinking a lot lately about what it means to be brave. I realized recently that I really admire people who are courageous. This year, I find myself strongly drawn to individuals who boldly speak opinions, who stand up for the marginalized in spite of potential backlash, who refuse to let themselves be held back by fear. There is something irresistible about them. I can't seem to get enough of it.

At one point early in my freshman year at Gonzaga, many of the girls in my hall decided to get "sorted." As a product of the Harry Potter generation, each of us had been swept into the magic of Hogwarts and so we set out to avoid our papers and instead find out which of the wizarding houses we belonged in. Like many Harry Potter fans, I wanted to be in Gryffindor. Brave people are cool. I would settle for Ravenclaw since I also self-identified as smart. Imagine my horror when on-line test after on-line test sorted me as a Hufflepuff. Who wanted to known as being nice? My dramatic, teenage self took my placement as a sign that college would not go well for me.

Fast forward four years, and college had gone very well. Hufflepuffs are known for their primary trait of kindness as well as their hard-working natures, loyalty to the well-being of others, and honesty. Come to find out, though people may want to be Gryffindors, they want to be friends with Hufflepuffs. By the time I graduated, I completely embraced my Hufflepuff identity - I have a shirt and scarf to prove it. In an ironic repeat of history, my housemates also wanted to get sorted when we moved to DC. This time, I proudly took the Pottermore test (the most authentic test any Muggle can take) knowing that I would be a Hufflepuff.

The Sorting Hat did a curious thing, though. It made me a Gryffindor. I have never viewed myself as brave, and I still don't. But the sorting has made me pay attention to those around me who are brave. 

My housemates and I were at a bonfire last week with a bunch of people most of us did not know. Comments started being made that me uncomfortable. Comments that perpetuate stereotypes and violence. Little, seemingly innocuous statements that many people say but that I haven't heard in a while because of the people I am around this year: "that's so gay," "he's being such a girl." I didn't say anything and neither did any of my housemates though we are all aware of the impact of those words.

None of us said anything until someone sitting next to us made a comment about homeless people running around because they're crazy and then laughed. My whole body got warm. I could pretend to not hear the previous comments, but I knew something had to be said about this one. I knew if something was not said it would trivialize and disrespect the truth of my experience with everyone I love who has been, is, or will be homeless because of mental illness. I stared into the fire saddened by the ignorance of the words and scrambled to find my own words. My housemate Kaitlyn, who was also sorted into Gryffindor against her wishes (she wanted to be a Ravenclaw) and who works as a case manager for people who are homeless, didn't seem to hesitate with her words. She looked straight at the stranger and said, "You're an asshole."

Could she have handled that better? Of course. But as I listened to Kaitlyn explain what her experience has been with people who are homeless, many of whom do suffer from mental illness, I felt so much pride. In fact, I have never been more proud of any of my housemates. Why? Because Kaitlyn was brave. She heard something that was wrong and hurtful and she refused to be silent. She was in a position of vulnerability and yet still chose to stand up for those who are even more vulnerable. 

Audre Lorde, an amazing Black, woman, warrior poet, said that "when I dare to be powerful, to use my strength in the service of my vision, then it becomes less and less important whether I am afraid." This is truth. In Harry Potter, Gryffindors were only at their best when they dared to stand up for others. In my life, I see a similar thing. At Joseph's House the vision is a radical one: everyone has
infinite worth. Belief in that truth is more important than my fear of disease, poverty, and death. Belief in the importance of service makes it less and less important whether I am afraid. The Bible says that perfect love drives out fear. How often have I confused fear for anger, confusion, or doubt? Too often, let me tell you. Love is the anti-thesis of fear. Love is what enables people to keep fighting  for their lives, for the lives of those they care about. Love is what makes it more and more important that I be brave. 

A Good Death

Scott, one of the directors of Joseph's House, sent this New York Times article to everyone on staff and it is too beautiful not to pass on. The writer notes that the story is "not a tragic death or a famous death, just a good one, the kind that might happen to any of us if we are lucky." These are the kind of deaths I get to be a part of at Joseph's House. Not tragic or famous but good, human, and full of the dignity everyone deserves.

http://www.nytimes.com/2013/04/14/opinion/sunday/a-good-death.html?src=twrhp

A Good Friday Reflection

Ethan was an artist, but by the time he came to us at Joseph's House he was ready to relinquish that part of his past. He refused to create and had in fact gotten rid of most of his work. At his memorial, his best friend, another artist, told us that Ethan had been the Michaelangelo of our time. His work was ethereal, romantic, stunning. And gone. The art is gone. No one knew why and Ethan would not speak of it.

It was early on in my time at Joseph's House and I was still trying to get to know everyone. Ethan and I got into a conversation about his art and a little bit about why he had stopped. He asked if I was an artist and I laughingly said no, but confessed that I was a writer. I hadn't voluntarily written anything of worth in a long time, though. I had stopped and wasn't sure if I would start again. I blamed it on writer's block and he nodded. "I understand that feeling," he said.

A few weeks later, I was giving him his afternoon pills. By then, we we were quiet friends and we had not revisited the art conversation. Everyone pushed him to draw, and I just wanted to be with him. I turned to leave and he called me back in the room.

"You should keep writing," he said. "You are too young to stop."

He got quiet and I saw him grow pensive.

"You may lose part of yourself if you stop."

I think that Ethan knew that while writer's block may have genuinely played a part in my decision, a bigger factor was fear. I had always enjoyed writing until I got to college and English professor after English professor rattled my confidence. I still journaled, but that was private. I did not want to offer my true self through writing to anyone else. Not when it could be rejected and taken a part. I would be like Emily Dickinson and my writing could be discovered after my death. But Emily died in part because of her depression. So Ethan encouraged me instead to be what he for some reason was not able to be. And today as I remember his death, and the death of my Savior, I am grateful for everyone who has quietly, gently listened to my fears and then pushed me to be brave.

In honor of the promise I made Ethan to keep writing, here is the first poem I wrote after that quiet conversation. It is based on an experience with another incredible Joseph's House resident and is still untitled, so if you have a title suggestion,  please feel free to let me know. It is a work in progress, but I think Ethan would like it.

I was scared of you --

no, not of you, but the death you were entering,

the death filling the room and touching me in ways I had never experienced --

but I had been taught to fear you, 

fear your sickness, 

fear what you could do to me.

I knew how to fear,

how to distance your mortality from mine,

so when I sat with you 

I automatically did that.

I told myself 

that I was scared of you.

It took all my courage to reach for your hand,

expecting you to push me away,

to lash out in anger and resentment.

But you took my hand, 

you took my spirit,

and you held it in a grace of tenderness that I knew,

knew in a way that was deep and intimate and old.

My hand, my spirit, knew you.

We had touched before.

I knew you.

And when I looked down,

when I gathered enough strength from you 

to see the truth that I already knew,

I saw why.

The brown of my skin flowed seamlessly 

into the brown of yours,

the color ebbing and rising from your skin to meet the subtle shades of gold and pink in mine 

that I can never seem to match when I look for makeup.

I had never met my brown in anyone else,

not in my mother, not in my father, 

not in Africa or the Pacific or any of the states I have been.

Only in you. 

Only in you.

And the longer you held me,

the more I remembered.

I remembered how we were once unified through the drumbeats of communal living,

with the rhythm of sunsets and sunrises 

as our shared breath.

I remembered you teaching me how to live for myself 

and for others,

for our people and for the earth,

for our ancestors and for the children that were never born.

I remembered you holding me as our home became our nightmare,

as other browns that did not match ours 

overlooked how special it is, 

how rare and holy it is, 

to hold in your hand a spirit that is the same.

You held my hand until the very last moment,

until we were chained,

until we were beaten,

until we were forced, yanked, pulled screaming and aching 

a part.

And still my brown longed for the feel of yours,

in the cargo of ships flowing with blood.

In waters that could not wash away the memory of brutality.

In town squares where the color of my skin made me an object.

Don't they know that our brown is priceless?

Don't they know that there is no value large enough to pay for the shade of my skin that is not replicated anywhere else in Creation 

but in your arms?

I tried to remember you.

I fought to remember.

I burned houses, murdered "masters."

I ran and poisoned. 

No one else matched my brown 

and slowly my brown changed until 

I did not even recognize it.

A foreign climate made me lighter.

Rapes and oppression made me darker. 

I began to fear that you would not recognize me 

and I grew ashamed.

Ashamed of the lies that stole 

my dignity, my innocence, 

my beauty, my strength.

But I still fought to remember you, 

to regain that which was ours.

I labored under sharecroppers. 

I established schools. 

I rode in the front of the bus.

I marched for non-violent revolution.

I watched crosses burn in my yard.

I missed you.

I fought and fought until 

I forgot why I was fighting.

That it was all out of my soul's desperate longing for you.

For my perfect match.

I left the ghettos hoping to find you.

I got an education trying to learn where you were.

I returned to Africa to search for you.

But it is hard to find someone when you don't even remember that you are looking for him,

when all your life "Black" has been ugly and inferior 

and your spirit revolts at that lie but doesn't know that someone's brown matches yours so beautifully 

that once more

you get the rivers again,

you get the singing again,

you get the dancing and the joy and the companionship that sustains even across continents, oceans, plantations, projects, 

and generations

and generations

and generations of violence.

Only you matched me.

Only you.

And in that room, at your bedside,

your brown reminded my brown of its identity.

Your brown remembered.

We were reunited.

We were finally reunited.

But the next day when I came,

I found that once again they had taken you from me. 

They killed you with their diseases.

They said that you were not human enough to save.

They used you and discarded you,

not seeing, or perhaps seeing but not caring,

how special it is,

how rare and holy it is, 

to hold in your hand a spirit that is the same.

Haven't we done enough penance for our crimes?

Haven't we suffered enough?

Don't they know that our brown is priceless?

Don't they know that there is no value large enough to pay for the shade of my skin that is not replicated anywhere else in Creation but in your arms?

Rediscovering the Sisterhood

Sometimes, you just have to let yourself love what you love. Not all the time. Eating all the Doritos I want would not be healthy. But sometimes, you really do need to allow yourself to love what you love. I love The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants book series.

This Saturday, after leaving a morning spent at a house of prayer I tried to read the philosophical book I have been carrying around. I almost fell asleep. On a beautiful, sunny Spring day reading this inspirational book outside, I almost fell asleep. I realized that I have been reading a lot of "good" books, books about spirituality and urban injustice and topics I studied in college classrooms. And while those books are great, I do not love them. And while those books are important, all I wanted was a book that didn't need to be read with a dictionary next to me or too much intellectual attention. Cue The Sisterhood.

I first read the series in middle school and have re-read each many times since. The academic world does not hold most popular modern fiction in high regard so as an English major, my enjoyment of the books became my secret, guilty pleasure. A couple of months ago I found out that a fifth book had been written to follow the original four. This last book told the story of the characters ten years later. And on this Saturday, all I wanted was a "fluffy" easy read about four fictional characters that I love.

I went to two different libraries until I found it and then happily read it all in less than 12 hours. The Sisterhood had grown up, and I felt as if I had grown with them. Within a few chapters, my favorite character had tragically and unexpectedly died, a loss that jarred me as much as it did the women in the book. Ann Brashares, the author, somehow managed to describe the grief  I feel at Ethan's death in perfect words. How different the world seems. How I suddenly question all perceptions of myself. How I just miss him.

Ann also perfectly described my own sisterhood, that group of women who I have grown into myself with. Within hours of finishing the book, I received an e-mail from a dear friend serving in El Salvador and had a phone conversation with another friend in Florida. I went to bed that night grateful for the people who love me at my highest moments of life and still love me when my sense of self is in fragile pieces all around me. Even miles and time zones away, we are so connected that when my spirit is hurting their spirits feel it too, despite the fact that we have not seen each other in over six months and will not see each other for many more months to come.

Tonight, a group of De Paul University students joined us for dinner to hear what our service year has been like, and I realized that my sisterhood is also a brotherhood. I am part of a personhood that laughs together, cooks together, questions together, fights together, hurts together. And above all, we live together. We love together. None of the "good" books have been talking about the worth of that. It took a "fluffy," non-intellectual novel to remind me. And that, I love. 

Watching Myself

A week ago today, nearly to the very hour, I got the call that my favorite Joseph's House resident had died, suddenly and unexpectedly. Ethan was a quiet, unassuming man and though I have always known that I love him, I did not know that he was my favorite until he was gone. I did not know how important he was to my life until he was no longer there. My body entered into grief while my mind and spirit lingered in disbelieving shock. Nearly immediately I noticed tension in my neck, my shoulders, my legs. My chest felt tight and I found it hard to breathe. I was and am still achy, as if I have done an intense workout. I did not know that I could carry sorrow physically like this.

The past week has been strange. For much of it, I have felt like a spectator watching someone who looks and talks just like me go through the motions of my life. Getting out of bed has never been so difficult. I watch myself get up, get ready, go to work. And to be honest, I have been so grateful for and proud of this Neshia who is living my life for me. She made it to work everyday, even though Ethan's prominent absence made it feel like I was arriving at Joseph's House for the first time all over again, and she was wonderful. I watched myself taking care of the other residents, refusing to not love them with all I have even though I am reeling from the results of the loss that comes when that kind of relationship is severed. I watched myself genuinely laugh and feel joy with others in spite of the sorrow. I watched myself bravely come to the dinner table that my intentional community gathers at every night. Normally, that table is a place of restoration for me, but this week it has been intimidating. So much gets shared there, but what I have to share feels too big, too painful for our wobbly, wooden table. So I watched myself come anyway and was glad that this Neshia was bold enough to be in community for me instead of curled up under my covers where the rest of me wanted to be.

This strange, compassionate self of mine went in my place and spent time with my younger brother and his 8th grade class on their East Coast trip. She stood up for me, and then lovingly held me as I sobbed, when the relative I have worshipfully loved and tried to please all my life said that I was not strong enough to do the work that I am doing and should reconsider my career goals, comments perhaps even more hurtful than the premature death of my dear friend. This other Neshia managed all my e-mails, phone calls, texts, and even bought my sister a sweet 16 gift. She has been great, and as each day gets a little easier and I come little by little back to my full self, I am glad that this is who I am. She is strong, kind, laughs, and loves without fear and one day I will wake up and not even realize that I am fully her again.

I am also extremely grateful for the others in my life who have been there completely and with their full selves to carry me this week. My housemate Liz, who found me alone in my dark bedroom gasping through my tears, and crawled into my bed to hold me to her heart. Thanks, Kitten. I appreciate all of the ways that you have loved me this week, and I want you to know that each small act was a huge comfort to me. My amazing co-workers and friends at Joseph's House who have held the sacred mourning space and lived through and because of the sorrow with bowls of ice cream and Fruit Loops, shared memories of Ethan, and lots of loving touches. No grief can undermine how blessed I am to be exactly where I am. To the admissions committee who accepted me into my grad program for next year without interviewing me. That did a lot for my self-worth this week. A professor from college whose e-mail was filled with pride and love for me. I was deeply moved and hope I will grow to be half the healer you are. My spiritual director, who thinks even in my utmost brokenness that I am a gift. What a grace.

This was not what I imagined this post to be. I had a plan and it was going to be great. But for whatever reason, this was what needed to be written so you will just have to read my Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants musings tomorrow. Until then, thank you, whoever you wherever you are. By reading this, you also help carry me. Even when it hurts, I still think we need each other.

This I Believe

Tonight, my house was brimming with guests. Every JV community is given a spiritual liason who helps guide and support the volunteers. Bill is ours and he has been fantastic. He believes in inter-faith dialogue so we have visited a Jewish synagogue, a Sikh temple, a Muslim mosque, and will be going to a Buddhist monastery next month. Once a month, he also comes to our house with pizza to lead a reflection. More importantly though, Bill believes in each of us. His pride in our work and his appreciation of our experiences has been such an encouragement for me and my housemates.

For this month, Bill brought pizza and seven former Jesuit Volunteers (FJVs) who all live in the city. Three of them had lived in our house and all were eager to be with us. One of them, a lady named Grace who had done her service year in Seattle, led us all in a reflection inspired by NPR's 'This I Believe' series. We listened to a recent interview by Father Greg Boyle and then to a 'This I Believe' list by a really impressive 6 year-old. Grace then gave us time to write our own belief list. Here is mine.

I believe that no one should die alone.
I believe in not speaking unless your words are more beautiful than the silence.
I believe that God is faithful, even when I am not.
I believe that hands are meant to be held.
I believe in answering phone calls at 3 in the morning.
I believe in watching the Sun rise.
I believe in loving someone even though you know he or she will die.
I believe in being honest.
I believe in holding yourself gently.

Being the "Other" for the "Other"

Joseph's House has its year-long volunteers take two classes to supplement the service experience. The first was led by my friend Emily (her blog is on the list on the left) and focused on mindfulness, compassion, and self-reflection. The second class, which I am in now, is facilitated by David, the Joseph's House founder (whose blog is also on the left). This class looks at racism in our country, how it is still perpetuated, and the effects it has on poverty and other areas of social injustice.

My time with Emily was challenging yet deeply restorative as she guided me and my co-workers Amy and Anand through a gentle stretching of our minds and spirits. She helped me face things about myself and my job that I could not address on my own. Somehow I left each of our meetings feeling as if I had answers to questions that I never knew I had.

David's class has proved to be more difficult for me and I always leave with more questions. Oftentimes, I find myself shaking with emotion as we discuss issues of prejudice and racism. These things affect my Joseph's House residents, who are mostly Black, poor, and undereducated, but they also affect me. I am well-educated and from a middle-class family, but that cannot lighten the darkness of my skin or the enslavement of my ancestors. JVC spends a significant amount of time telling its volunteers not to think of the people we serve as the "other" but as individuals who are like us. This is important when the volunteer is a privileged, fairly affluent, and Caucasian individual serving minority populations in cultures very different from his or her own. In actuality, the lesson of accompaniment and solidarity is important for all.

However, my experience is also different. The "other" in society has always been my family, has always been me. When I hold the hand of a dying resident at Joseph's House, the brown of my skin will look like the brown of his. When my classmates or housemates talk abut feeling like a minority for the first time here in DC because of the whiteness of their skin and how uncomfortable it is, I know how they feel. It is what I have felt every day everywhere else but in DC. I know what it is like to be the token minority in the classroom, the dance studio, the leadership groups, the church, the family. I am the only JV on the East Coast of Polynesian descent, and the only one in DC of African-American descent as well. While my peers may approach racism and prejudice from an intellectual and then relational perspective, my knowledge of these issues are rooted in the personal experiences of myself and my family and then look towards the objective lens. The systems of oppression that we as volunteers study in order to help those who are marginalized are the same systems I am still learning how to overcome.

It can be difficult being the "other" in a group, and I have been wrestling with what it means to be a privileged, though in some ways still marginalized, woman of color serving impoverished and completely marginalized people of color. It feels hypocritical sometimes, as if somehow I am better than them since I am young, healthy, educated, and have a stable enough future where I can make no money for a year and that not negatively affect me. I hope my service is not seen like that. I find myself wondering if my Joseph's House residents trust me because I am compassionate and good at my job or because I look like them.

And yet by being the "other" I fit in. DC has such a diverse, brown population that for the first time in my life I blend into the crowd. When people stare at me on the street it is because I look interesting and not because I am the only person of color walking around. I understand how my residents speak and how they show affection because my family does it the same way. My frustrations, dreams, and joys are the same as theirs. And when my residents need love, I am able to give it, because my "other" is the same as theirs.

My housemates and I almost did not get to go to the Presidential Inauguration in January. I advocated  on behalf of my house though, partially because the Inauguration is such a big deal in DC, but also because Obama is one of my role models. Don't get me wrong, he is by no means an ideal President (drones and sequesters are awful things to have attached to your legacy), but he represents me and countless people in our country who are the "other." Growing up, my parents always told me I could be anything I wanted to be, but that dream can get discouraging when you see no one doing the things you want to do who are like you. Obama is like me. He is a child of a multi-racial family, he is strongly connected to the Pacific, and though he makes mistakes, he believes in the work of social justice too. Watching him get inaugurated, with his hand on Rev. Martin Luther King, Jr's Bible, was one of the most inspiring moments of my life. It showed me that being different from what society normally sees as desirable can change history, especially when done with courage and hope. I remember that when the segregation in our capital makes me angry, or when I have to watch another person I love die from a disease that should no longer kill anyone. You have to be different to make things different. So I will keep on being the "other." I'm in good company.

The People Shaping Me

I have some pretty incredible people in my life whom I get to call friends and family. I am able to do what I do and be where I am because I have people in my life who support my hopes and dreams. Many of them devote their lives to service and social justice themselves. Some of them even keep blogs. While I hope my words encourage and challenge you, I want you to also hear the stories of my friends. These are individuals - a best friend from college, fellow volunteers, inspirational mentors - who encourage and challenge me. Their lives enrich mine. Some are abroad and some may be in your neighborhood. All are shaping me. I have added a list of their blogs to the left. Go check them out. These people are my companions and role models. There are breathtaking photos, snap-worthy poetry, and genuine reflections on what it means to be true to the life a person has been given.

Love, love.

I am Because We are

Good thing I am trying to follow the spirit of Lent more than the law of Lent because I completely failed blogging every day this week. Oops. Hey, life happens.

I have reached the halfway point in my JVC experience and that in turn has made me reflect on why I am here. Why am I doing what I am doing where I am doing it? I do not think I will know the actual answer to these questions this year, or for many years, or perhaps ever. However, I do know that a desire to be in community played a significant role in my choice to do a service year. Two years ago this spring, I was preparing to study abroad in Zambia. There is a saying in Africa that translates to "I am because we are and we are because I am." This idiom speaks to the heart of what it means to be community. We are all interconnected. Humanity draws strength and creativity from humanity. This in turn fosters the ability to be a unique individual and contribute something essential to the community. We all need each other.

Nine out of ten Gonzaga students (yes, I just made up that statistic but I guarantee you that the actual number is very close to this) when asked what they love most about my alma mater will say community, myself included. Part of why I joined JVC was because my college experience showed me how important it is for me to be in meaningful relationships with those around me. My time on the East Coast has been defined by these relationships.

Yesterday, I spent my Friday off with my roommate Marlena at her placement. Mar works as an after-school coordinator at an inner-city charter school in SE DC. She is in charge of 100ish kindergarten through third grade students plus staff. Marlena's work environment is nearly a complete opposite of mine. At Joseph's House, I work with adults and though it can get busy, my work practically drips with the quiet of peaceful afternoons, soothing voices, and gentle touches. On Friday I found myself surrounded by kids and noise seemed to come from every corner. No one was meditating or taking mindful breaths. Everything was chaos and fast and full of an energy that I am not used to.

Yet in the midst of a place that is not my place, there was community. Marlena, who is nearly six feet tall and has extremely blonde hair, had told her students that she was bringing her sister, me, to work. When I walked in, her students started jumping from excitement. In the time it took me to blink, I had second and third graders hanging off my arms. I was Marlena's sister and since they loved her they automatically loved me. It did not matter that I looked more like the black students than I did my Italian roommate. I was family and I was there and that was all that mattered.

Community holds us together. On Thursday night, I stayed at work late to sit with Mama as she was beginning her long process of dying. That morning, after many days of being together, she had looked at me and had not known who I was. I had to walk away to keep from crying in front of her. And just as quickly as I had been hurt, I returned to her side. She is my community. Part of my identity is shaped by her and I needed to fulfill the part of her that is shaped by me even in those final moments when she was going in and out of lucidity. Mama passed away this morning, peacefully and in a community that loved her.

Community, even on the days that are challenging and annoying, is a blessing. It is an awesome thing to be able to share life together. Who are those people that have and continue to shape who you are? Where is your community? Thank them, even if in the moment the process hurt you. For some reason, that made you stronger, wiser, more human. And in turn, your life shaped them, too.

I am because we are. We are because I am.

Sharing Yourself

"Sharing yourself is always better than not sharing yourself (within safe confines)."

- Dr. David Hilfiker

Joseph's House was founded by Dr. David Hilfiker. At the time, David was practicing medicine at Christ House, a residential medical facility for those who are homeless. He noticed that many of his patients were not only homeless, but alo suffering from HIV/AIDS. He saw a need for a place of both healing and community. Joseph's House, just around the corner from Christ House, became that place.

I am still a bit star-struck by David. If he had not been brave enough to listen to the calling that inspired Joseph's House I would not be where I am right now in my life. You can feel David's intelligence and passion when you are with him. He practiced medicine for nearly two decades, has written extensively on issues of social justice, and teaches classes - one on urban poverty in which I am in now. I am walking in a legacy that David created. His brilliance and compassion has very literally changed my life.

A few weeks ago, David very honestly shared with his wide network of friends, acquaintances, and colleagues through an e-mail his experience so far of having Alzheimer's disease. Today, at the Joseph's House staff meeting, he spoke about how the disease is changing his relationship with his sense of identity. Throughout his entire life, David has identified as an intellectual. So much of his success has been based on his mental prowess. He took pride in this, established a life through this, created good because of this. Now things are different. Now this man who I admire so, so much is literally losing his mind - and he is in tune with himself well enough to know it. Furthermore, he is embracing this process that many people fight. He is letting go of the identity he gave himself and is allowing himself to be more than he ever realized he could be.

As someone who has also self-identified as an intellectual throughout my life, David's situation scares me. The thought of forgetting memories, loved ones, and then myself is terrifying. Yet David says that this is the happiest time of his life. That he feels both freedom and beloved. He is documenting his disease through his blog, sharing what is most vulnerable in order to create a space for something sacred. David says that he is not courageous in his choosing to share his personal loss so openly, but he accepted when my staff insisted that he was being generous. Wonderfully generous in letting us into his life to experience with him something so new, intimidating, and real.

Alzheimer's disease takes a lot away, both from the person losing cognitive function and from the people around him or her. Yet many people note that relationships do not disappear. Memories and details may be forgotten, but love still remains. How miraculous are humans that our minds may lose strength but our hearts do not? It made me think, if I was to get Alzheimer's today, what loves would my heart remember? What relationships would sustain what my brain no longer could?

I am aware that I am learning things at a very young age that some people never learn. How not to fear disease and loss. How not to cling tightly to things that were never mine to keep. How to be gentle with myself. Today I am thankful for the many loving, life-giving relationships that have brought me here and to David for continuing to leave a legacy of courage (even though he would never agree to that) and peace for me and everyone who is touched by Joseph's House.

Why are Irish People so Cool?

Liz is the eldest of my housemates and the only one of us who has done JVC before. Last year, as a member of JVC Northwest, she was placed in Wenatchee, Washington. Maybe that is why she reminds me so much of home. I admire Liz because she is always asking questions and seeking truth. A couple of months ago she lent me a book by John O'Donohue called Anam Cara. O'Donohue was a Celtic mystic, and though it is taking me forever to read it, Anam Cara is beautifully written. The poem that O'Donohue uses to dedicate the book is particularly poignant to me, and when I am having a rough day I re-read it for encouragement. Here is the poem:

BEANNACHT
For Josie

On the day when
the weight deadens
on your shoulders
and you stumble,
may the clay dance
to balance you.

And when your eyes
freeze behind
the gray window
and the ghost of loss
gets into you,
may a flock of colors,
indigo, red, green
and azure blue
come to awaken in you
a meadow of delight.

When the canvas frays
in the curach of thought
and a stain of ocean
blackens beneath you,
may there come across the waters
a path of yellow moonlight
to bring you safely home.

May the nourishment of the earth be yours,
may the clarity of light be yours,
may the fluency of the ocean be yours,
may the protection of the ancestors be yours.

And so may a slow
wind work these words
of love around you,
an invisible cloak
to mind your life.

Life According to Bob Ross

A couple of weekends ago, two of my housemates and I stumbled across a rerun of Bob Ross's show "The Joy of Painting." You know Bob Ross. That artist with an incredible afro and calming voice? Awesome, I know. We sat transfixed in our living room as Bob turned a blank canvas into a stunning landscape. The man was a terrific creator.

As I watched him, I was also struck by his wisdom. As he painted, Bob gently instructed his television audience on how to recreate what he was doing on the canvas. According to Bob Ross, we can all be master painters. I have my doubts about that, but I was flattered by his faith in my skills. Bob offered guidance on how to create vivid colors and realistic imagery, but I found myself realizing that maybe his advice on how to paint was actually advice on how to live life. At one point, as he lovingly created clouds out of nothing, Bob told the audience that a painting is your world. You get to make it however you want it to be. He calmly noted that, "if you are not happy with the world you have created, you have only yourself to blame."

Huh. What a thought. So often I try to find others to blame when something in my life goes wrong. It is society's fault for not properly caring for and therefore signing the death certificate of the Joseph's House residents who die even though I love them so much. A messy house is the fault of my housemates. Forgetting a Skype date with a friend who I was really excited to talk to is my church's fault for making the Ash Wednesday service too long after an already exhausting work day. As much as possible, I try to avoid blame. If I can find another person beside myself to assign fault with, I do.

But according to Bob Ross, who is nearly as wise as Mr. Miyagi, I am in charge of my happiness in this world I have created. There are some things that I can not control, like society determining who are and are not valuable in our culture. So much of the little things that frustrate me though, like messes and my own forgetfulness, just need a change of perspective in order to have a different outcome. I can alter the result by a few words or actions. With enough persistence and faith, I can even alter the big things.

This, of course, requires a certain level of humility, courage, and grace that I am not always willing to live out. It is much easier (and fun even) to be snarky and miserable about things I do not like about my life rather than doing something about them. I want a beautiful world, though. I want my life to be as awe-inspiring as a Bob Ross painting. So I might as well take both the credit and blame for what I am creating. I get to make it however I want it to be. It might as well make me happy.

Never Forget

There is a resident at Joseph's House who I find myself calling Mama. I always remember how long she has been with us because her first day at Joseph's House was my birthday. Mama is used to being the primary caretaker for others in her life. She was a single parent and worked multiple jobs to put her oldest grandchild through college. Her entire life revolved around providing for those that she loved. Cancer, however, is not impressed by hard work and devotion. It comes when it will and does not care that everything must stop to face it.

In spite of the cancer, Mama refuses to stop living. She has turned the attention that she gave to her jobs to everyone who comes through Joseph's House. On her first night with us, she pulled a stool into the kitchen and proceeded to peel potatoes and wash dishes while supervising what my coworkers were cooking on the stove for dinner. She spent the next few days diligently learning the name of every staff member and resident. She knows all about our families, our love lives, and our dreams for the future. She lectures everyone to wear jackets in the cold and kisses my cheek every night when I go into her room to say goodbye.

I love her. I cannot help it. I appreciate her thoughtfulness and how she tries to take care of everyone. She reminds me of my mother and my grandmother, and she in turn has introduced me to people as her grandchild. I love her and I cannot help it even though I know that she is dying. Even though every day brings us one breath closer to goodbye. Her presence feeds my spirit and I delight in her. I cannot stop loving her and that makes each day harder. Rounds of chemo have made her voice raspy and her body weak. She tells me that she is tired for no reason and I feel my heart drop because I know the fatigue is a sign of her worsening health. Her independent nature is now reduced by unsteady footsteps and frequent bouts of shortness of breath. She is dying and it is breaking my heart.

Yet in the midst of everything Mama is experiencing she still is thinking of others. One afternoon I sat side by side with her on her bed in our normal style. We were holding hands and laughing at our own jokes. She then patted my hands and said, "No matter what, honey, don't you ever forget that you help keep me alive. You save my life."

When I explain to people what I do, many ask how I can do such difficult work and not become depressed. They say that they could never do it. I wish I could tell them stories like this, how the weight of my sorrow is made bearable and even greatly diminished by the sweetness of being in relationship. I wish I could save Mama. I would carry the cancer in my own body if it would give her even one more year with her beloved grandsons. But, man, how awesome is it that for this brief time I get to revel in her love? How fortunate that I get to learn from her what it really means to love in a way that is selfless and unconditional. I will never forget.