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.