Happy Holidays!

Here's a few shots from the past few days, including a BLIZZARD!, as well as an appearance from Santa at our After-School Program Christmas Party. I hope everyone has a wonderful holiday!










HAPPY HOLIDAYS FROM GUILFORD AVE.!

Opportunity

"Equality means dignity. And dignity demands a job and a paycheck that lasts through the week."
~ Martin Luther King, Jr.

I am really enjoying work these days. Mr. Moore and I are deep into our preparations for the 8th Annual Martin Luther King, Jr. Day Job Fair, and we have made it a priority to do some street-level marketing for this, as I am currently learning, all-too-important day.

There’s something about getting out of the office and walking these streets with my boss that has cultivated within me a feeling of connectedness to this neighborhood. We try to stay out at least an hour a day, clipboards and pens in hand, and simply roam the streets of Johnston Square, searching for anyone who might be looking for a job. And let me tell you, they aren’t very hard to find.

After the first week of this, I’d become adept at picking out the “job-seekers.” They are the group of young men standing on the corner with their hands in their pockets. They are the single mothers, with a grocery bag in one hand and a toddler in the other, returning from a quick run to the corner store. They are the elderly who walk the sidewalks with a limp or a cane, but nevertheless, still walk. And all I have to do when I make eye contact with them is say, “Excuse me, we’re having a job fair on MLK Day…”

Nearly everyone responds, “Oh, I need a job.” And as I take their information and hand them a flier, I begin to think, this is how easy it should be. If you want a job and are willing to work, you should be able to. These past few weeks, if nothing else, have shown me the enormous amounts of time wasted by people who simply don’t have an opportunity to work. Guys with birth years later than my little sister, out of school and wasting their days away as the cold urban wind begins to blow their faces to stone. The potential for this neighborhood to be something great is there, it’s tangible, I can see it for myself. So why can’t we reach it?

I am falling back on the Community Center for some answers. While we might not “fix” neighborhoods like Johnston Square anytime soon, we can continue to do what we can to bring some equality into the picture. And for a neighborhood like Johnston Square, equality means jobs that pay a living wage. Everyone here wants to work; I know this because they’ve told me so. The man born in the 1940’s wants to work. The woman who just had twins wants to work. The man who walked out of the prison after six years and happened to run into me wants to work. If anyone has a new business idea and is looking for some motivated employees, I’ve got your labor force right here.

I know it’s not as simple as giving jobs to those who ask for them. I realize that, especially now, sometimes the jobs just simply aren’t there. But there still always exists the need for opportunity for people, especially now. And I suppose I could sum up the work this Community Center does in one word: Opportunity. This job fair is an opportunity, if only for a day, for people to feel like they have a chance to reach their potential. We are not promising some grand life changes just by showing up and sticking your hand out. The people I’ve met on these streets, the ones who have asked me if being incarcerated would disqualify them from coming, or the ones who simply do not believe that anyone would care enough about this neighborhood to have a job fair here, know all too well the struggles involved in living a hard-worked, decent life. But if they are willing and committed, if they want to reach out for something higher than the Latrobe Homes housing project or a prison cell on Eager Street, shouldn’t they be given the chance?

Thank you, Mr. Moore and the St. Frances Academy Community Center, for being there, and for believing, even when it is cold.

The New 12 Days of Christmas

Lyrics to the newest single from "Mr. Scott & the After-School Sillies," a twist on the classic Christmas song, "The Twelve Days of Christmas." Sing it around your fireplace tonight!

On the twelfth day of Christmas, my true love sent to me...

Twelve blue girls,
Eleven talking computers,
Ten squeaky birds,
Nine dancing houses,
Eight chairs in a pool,
Seven magic microphones,
Six (one of the kids erased this one before I could write it down)
Five CDs!
Four flipping bears,
Three pecan pies,
Two dining room sets,
And a hippo in a bathtub!

The Gov'ment

This is a sad week for Baltimore. Mayor Sheila Dixon was convicted of a misdemeanor embezzlement charge on Tuesday, bringing an end to a trial that has taken weeks and that gave everyone in the city something to talk about. Basically, the gist is this: Dixon was charged with 7 offenses, all stemming from the allegation that she spent gift cards donated to City Hall in 2005 on herself, rather than using them to help the city's poor and needy. Apparently the donors of the gift cards had relationships with Dixon, and she thought they were meant as personal gifts. After all was said and done, after testimonies heard from ex-boyfriends and developers (but not Dixon herself), the Mayor was found guilty of spending around $600 of what was deemed city money on herself. Her fate will be decided in the coming months, though it is unclear as to whether or not she will remain in office.

Now, being as that I have lived in this city for all of 3 months, I feel I am in no position to have a passionate opinion about this case. However, after listening to co-workers and long-time city residents, it seems that the consensus is that Dixon is a very good mayor for this city, people generally like what she has done. She is tough and driven, both things this city needs. However, she has also made mistakes, and has surrounded herself with the wrong people in the past, as evidenced by this conviction. She should be punished for this because as a public figure, she needs to hold herself to a higher standard.

The newspaper said that it's a sad day for Baltimore. Newsanchors, experts, and talking heads have all declared that there are no winners with this outcome, and I agree with that. I'm sorry that Dixon put herself in this position, and I'm sorry that so much time and money was spent trying to build a case against her. I guess the questions Baltimore needs to ask itself are these: Do we really want to crucify and oust a person from office who seems to be so good for the city, over a few hundred dollars she spent on herself 4 years ago? Doesn't this city have more pressing needs to spend its time and resources on, like for instance, a city-wide jobs program?

Speaking of jobs...

Mr. Moore is at the White House today! He was invited to participate in the Jobs Summit conference hosted by the president in an effort to come up with some concrete ideas about job-creation in this country. Apparently this is a pretty big-time meeting, and he will hopefully be able to offer his expertise and opinions regarding this topic during a break-out session. He was treated to breakfast this morning in the West Wing, and perhaps later he will even catch a glimpse of the president!

Needless to say, Mr. Moore and I are excited about this opportunity. I am sure, if given the chance, he will express to his constituents the dire need for the availability of substantive work here in Baltimore City. After spending the past few weeks signing up job-seekers in the neighborhood for the job fair we are holding on MLK Day, I have witnessed first-hand the desire people have to work, and the lack of jobs that are available to them. As we continue to press on with our goal to bring economic justice to our community, we view this White House summit as at the very least a sign that the government is interested in our cause.

So this week I have seen the highs and lows of the role of the government in this nation. Where one day we experience the betrayal of seeing a mayor get convicted, another day we feel the hope in being able to express our views on a national stage. I can only hope that in the coming days, weeks, months and years, we are able to experience more highs than lows, not only for Baltimore, but for the good ol' USA in general.

Free Cheese

Sometimes, there’s no better word to sum up a week than fun. And for me, that’s what this week was all about. Let me weave ye a little tale….

It all started on Monday, when Stacey, Kelly and I put our momentary spurs on and decided to go to a concert. You may be saying to yourself, “This cat keeps saying he doesn’t make any money. How does he have the dough to go to a concert?” Well, my friend, being as that there is really nothing to spend money on during my day-to-day activities (unless I want a Big Texas cinnamon bun from the vending machine at work…and occasionally, I do), I was sitting pretty safe financially, so I decided to go for it.

It didn’t hurt that the headliner was Brett Dennen, of whom I am a big fan, as well as Grace Potter and the Nocturnals, and Robert Francis. From the first note of the evening, I was sold. Francis and Potter both blew me away by the sheer power of their vocals, and Ms. Potter’s band just straight up ROCKED. I had already deemed the night a success by the time Mr. Dennen prowled on stage (quite literally, it seemed as if he was prowling like a grasshopper. Do grasshoppers prowl?). Not to be outdone by the preceding acts, Brett put on one heck of a show. He is a very gifted lyricist, and it is obvious how emotionally attached he is to his music. The girls and I managed to get front row for his set, and we were extremely pleased with his performance. Did I mention we got free samples of cheese? I went home a happy man, and all I kept thinking was, “Thank God for good music!”

Tuesday brought around a bit of a road trip, as Rachel and I drove up to St. Joseph’s University for a basketball game between our alma maters. Now, this being my first time on campus since I got my graduation slip in May, I was excited to see the new Fieldhouse, and hopefully run into some friends. Despite some traffic, Rachel and I were able to catch most of the game, and we sat with some of the Philadelphia JV’s who had secured us our free tickets. I saw some friends, the Hawks managed to fly to victory, and we were home by eleven. All in all, a good night.

Thursday night, our support person Steve had us all over for a pre-Thanksgiving Thanksgiving dinner, and as JV’s, it is our sworn duty to never turn down a free meal. We headed over to his house, and after shooting the breeze for a bit and playing with his 4-year old son and 3-month old daughter, we sat down to eat. Now, mind you, Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday, so that would explain the fact that I was in my glory. Turkey! Gravy! Stuffing! Sweet Potatoes! Pumpkin Pie! And a dog to pet after I was done! In addition to the great food, I was thankful for the company, and for the amount of great people to whom I have been exposed during my time as a JV thus far. This really is a great time of the year.

Saturday was spent tooling around in our nation’s capitol with the housemates and my favorite Hawk. I had been to DC numerous times, but this was the first with my people from Baltimore, and I was excited to experience the monuments with them. Every time I walk around those memorials, I get chills (it was a bit breezy, but I did have my trusty denim jacket on, so I was fine weather-wise), and being with my JV compadres, the experience meant even more. Brett Dennen sings that he “was made for better things.” Walking around DC, seeing the history and testaments of greatness before my eyes, and being with people whom we have shared much together, I too believe that we “are made for better things.”

Now, I’m looking forward to a short week, my family spending Thanksgiving Day in Baltimore, and a trip home to New Jersey. How is it almost December already?

Nobody's Perfect

"Nobody's perfect. Well, there was this one guy, but we had him killed..."
~ Anonymous

The other night, I finished reading Lamb by Christopher Moore (no relation to my boss...I think). After triumphing over the 900-page behemoth that is Lincoln by Gore Vidal (don't let anyone ever tell you that Mr. Vidal is a man of few words), I needed something light, funny, with just a smidgen of relevance for me. When I found out that Lamb was being marketed as, "The Gospel according to Biff, Christ's childhood pal," how could I resist?

This book is funny. Written from the point of view of a fictional character named Biff (Who knows? Maybe Jesus did have a pal named Biff. Is Biff traditionally a Jewish name? These are things I need to know), the book tells the story of Christ's forgotten years, from childhood to age 33, when he gets duped by a bunch of uppity Sanhedrin-types (you know the story).

The bulk of the book attempts, in it's own way, to fill in the blanks of Jesus' life prior to his preaching. Apparently, the author suggests that maybe He and Biff travelled east to China, India, and Tibet, in search of the three kings who visited Christ on the night of his birth. Along the way, Jesus and Biff pick up some knowledge on topics like alchemy, kung-fu, and the Divine Spirit. The big J-man then returns home to gather his flock and preach the good word, and all the while Biff is faithfully by his side, all the way to the bitter end (I don't want to give away the ending, but there's something about Jesus getting nailed to a huge wooden plus sign. I guess he wasn't too good at math).

So after I finished the book and laid my head down to rest, I got to thinking: what about this book is so far-fetched? No one really knows what Jesus did for basically his entire life, and what he do know about him was written by four guys long after he did his whole get-crucified-then-resurrect thing. And, after comparing the basic tenants of His teachings to that of Buddhism, Hinduism, etc., it would support the theory that Jesus was at least exposed to Eastern thought. The more I think about it, the more I like the idea that Jesus was a worldly man, that he spent some time tooling around distant lands, picking up morsels of knowledge otherwise unknown to his people in the Middle East. I'm no expert on Jesus (yet, at least). All I'm saying is, it would be pretty cool if we found out that the great Jesus H. Christ (in the book, Biff thinks the H. stands for Harvey. I think it's Herman) was also a full-fledged Buddhist monk, or that he spent years meditating in a Himalayan cave. It would at least serve as a great connector of all the world religions (not that we really need one, I mean, "Love One Another" should be a pretty universal thing, right?)

And that got me thinking some more (don't worry, I did eventually sleep that night). With so many people today getting caught up in meeting every minute "standard" of their religion, we are losing sight of the big picture. Let's not forget that most of what we have come to accept as religion (i.e. the various rules, dogmas, principles) have been created in the minds of men. Now I'm not saying that all religious leaders were sneaky little guys trying to brainwash all of humanity (although that may have been the case for some), I'm just saying "Errare Humanum Est" ("To Err is Human," for those of you who didn't take Latin in high school). Humans, for all their wonderful and amazing powers, make mistakes, and through the sands of time (I love that phrase, "Sands of Time." So important-sounding.), I'm pretty sure at least one or two were made when trying to put the Word of God down on paper. So while all these religious texts and writings we have are useful and should be carefully thought upon, let's not forget that it was Man who wrote them. Man is not God, Man was created by God (or Yahweh, or Allah, or...).

Needless to say, Lamb will get you thinking. Even if you don't believe a word in the book (after all, Christopher Moore would be a member of the "Man" I was referring to in the preceding paragraph), his story is at least fun to think about. Even if Jesus the man means nothing to you, even if you don't believe he walked on water, multiplied the bread, or turned water into chocolate milk (or was it wine?), his message should still have relevance for you. Just the idea that someone could care so much for his fellow man that he would lay down his life should serve as some sort of inspiration for all of us. Not, of course, to go and try to get crucified for your neighbor (do we still crucify people these days?), but maybe we can use his story to make a sacrifice in our own lives that will help the marginalized and neglected members of our society. Because after all, no matter what beliefs you hold, what colors you wear, what team you root for, at our most basic level, shouldn't we just "Love One Another"?



(If you have a conception of Jesus from which you are totally unwilling to budge, then you probably won't like this book. If you are looking for an interesting take on the life of a well-known man, then try it!)

A Thriller Night

The calendar says November; is it safe to breath now? The past fortnight (that's two weeks, in Shakespeare-speak) has been a big ol' heaping whirlwind of candy, trips to Sam's Club, and mechanical monster assembly. So, now that the 8th Annual St. Frances Academy Community Center Halloween Party (yes, that's a mouthful, but so is a $5 foot-long...and America loves its foot-longs) has come and gone, I'm going to make like a baseball player who puts his hat on twice and RE-CAP. (Get it?)

This Halloween bash was one of the first things I remember being stressed to me when I started at SFA. Mr. Moore told me he wanted it "Boffo," which, according to him, is a hybrid of the terms over-the-top and out-of-this-world (I'm still looking for "Boffo" in the dictionary). Anyway, for about two-to-three weeks (hey, anyone notice I just used 7 hyphens in the previous two sentences? Is there a hyphen limit in the English language that I should be aware of?) leading up to Halloween, I was basically in charge of preparing for the day while Mr. Moore secured the finances needed to pull off the event.

So there I was, digging through old boxes filled with fake rats, light-up skeletons, and gigantic spiders, trying to figure out a way to feng-shui a multi-purpose room and gymnasium into the spookiest rooms this side of St. Paul Street. And as I assembled a grim-looking groom who held his bride's severed head, I thought, "My job could be a lot worse."

10 a.m. Saturday morning. I had just spent the last 11 out of 12 days at the Community Center- so hey? what's two more?- (two more hyphens, by the way), and the game was on. I spent most of the day setting up the haunted house, directing the volunteers, and making sure the guy with no head was standing up straight (he tended to lean to the side a bit, no doubt caused by the extra weight of having to hold his own head. Poor guy.) By 3:30, we were sitting pretty. The gym looked smashing, the house looked haunted, and Mr. Moore and I looked excited, if not a little tired.

By 4;30, there was a line of kids lined up outside the front door. After assigning the 100 volunteers to their roles for the night, we opened the doors, and in flowed a grand assortment of witches, supermans, and ninjas. The neighborhood kids had come out in full force in their best costumes, looking for some candy and a good time. When it really comes down to it, aren't we all looking for some candy and a good time?

From then on, the night was a blur. Mr. Moore and I quickly changed into our Michael Jackson costumes. At 5:30, we made our grand entrance, walking out onto the balcony overlooking the gym floor to the tune of "Thriller," by the King of Pop himself. After showcasing our awkward-if-not-hearfelt moonwalking moves, we spent the rest of the night in our Jericurl wigs and pleather jackets. We floated around the place for the rest of the evening, working to ensure everything went smoothly and that everyone had a smashing good time.

At one point, I paused and took the whole scene of the night in. I was impressed at how many different groups had come together to help pull this thing off. Mr. Moore has an incredible amount of connections throughout the city, and he has many dear friends upon whom he can call at any time. Whether it be a donation of money or time, the friends and colleagues he has encountered throughout the years are all eager to help him, and I think that says a lot about him as a person and the work he does. I hoped that I would be in that position someday, and then I realized I am already on my way there. I looked at the volunteers, and I saw my housemates (who came as a box of crayons), some Jesuit Volunteers from DC, volunteers from other service corps within the city, and even a Saint Joe's Hawk! They all had put off their (assumingly) awesome Halloween plans to lend me a hand for a few hours, and I couldn't have been more grateful. Boy, it's good to have friends!

By 8 p.m., we were pushing people out the door, and the "Great Clean Up Dance" began. I was surprised at the amount of work we got done, and by 9 o'clock my housemates and I were out the door, heading home to our Crayola box (because we were crayons, get it?) All told, we had about 900 guests show up for the food, frights, and fun. A thousand bags of candy were given out, numerous horse and buggy rides were taken, and hundreds of little kids I'm sure made their bellies hurt while hopping on the moonbounce. After the chaos had subsided, Mr. Moore told me (still in his wig and wearing his sequined glove, mind you), "Well, Scott, you survived your first Boffo event." And that's what I feel like I did. It wasn't a perfect night, and I could have done some things better. But hey, even Michael Jackson himself made a sub-par album once(did he? I'll get back to you on that one). The point is, overall, the night was a pretty darn cool one, and I can't wait to see what's next!



(I counted the use of 20 hyphens. I hope this post is up to code.)

Six Thousand Words

A thousand greetings bestowed upon ye! I have been very busy as of late, with nary a second to be spent putting words to paper (or, words to a computer screen, as it were) about my days lately. So, until that happens, here's a few shots of what's been going on down in good ol' B-More. There's six pictures, each containing a thousand words, so you can do the math to figure out the title of this post. See, learning can be fun! Enjoy! Go Phillies!



Fort McHenry



Druid Hill Park



Carving Pumpkins



8th Annual St. Frances Academy Community Center Halloween Party



Mr. Moore & I



The Haunted House

Be the Rain

"Be the ocean when it meets the sky
Be the magic in the northern lights
Be the river as it rolls along
Be the rain you remember fallin'
Save the planet for another day
Be the river as it rolls along."

-- Neil Young, "Be the Rain"

Sometimes you need the rain. It can’t always be 76 degrees and sunny out all the time (sorry for the reality check, Southern Californians). Sometimes you need the raw wind to blow the feeling out of your nose, and sometimes you need the freezing rain to soak through your shoes, leaving your toes to do the penguin circle dance as they curl together to stay warm. As the weather unleashed a totally uncalled-for attack of miserableness upon Baltimore this weekend, the housemates and I caught a glimpse of a different side of being a JV in this city. No longer was the bright, sunny weekend that we all look forward to at the end of each work week, one where we can play Frisbee in the park and our two feet can pleasantly take us wherever we want to go.

In an effort to really commit ourselves to the four values of JVC (Pop quiz time! Ok, what are the four values of JVC? Write your answers down, and you'll find out if you are right later on later on…), the housemates and I came up with a number of challenges that we as a community would like to try this year (Answer! Simple living, Community, Spirituality, and Social Justice. If you got more than 3 wrong, go ahead and reread the previous material, and if you still need help, maybe I’ll call your parents). This past week, we decided to focus on the value of simple living, and we all tried to find ways in which we could take ourselves out of our own comfort zones throughout our daily lives. For some, this meant taking a sub-5 minute shower; for others, this meant taking a military shower (a word of caution for aspiring military shower-takers: it will be difficult to grip the knob to turn the water back on after you have lathered your hands with soap. I recommend using only one hand to handle all your soaping activities). We also set goals for limiting TV time, car-driving time, and personal computer time. By attempting to cut back on all these things, we taught ourselves a few lessons. First, we realized that, even by volunteer standards, we are lucky to have so many things at our disposal- i.e. a house with working heat, a hot shower, and food. Second, by removing the distractions that many of these things cause, we were able to focus and apply our selves to the here and now, both at our places of employment, and within our home.

This week we are taking on the challenge of buying only locally-made or sold groceries. This means no shopping at big supermarkets like Giant or Safeway. Therefore, the major source for food will come from a farmer’s market that operates once a week by our house. And on Saturday morning, that is where we were, ponchos and hoods on, perusing the produce, looking for the best price.

We spent a lot of money at the market, more than we usually spend during our trips to the Giant (20 dollars for 2 gallons of milk! But, I must admit, the glass bottles that they come in are really cool). But, as we walked back to our house that morning, we agreed that this is all part of the learning process. Though we spent a lot, we were still under our food budget for the week, and we were able to buy everything we needed from either a local grower or a local store. Though we will not be eating the meals we are accustomed to this week, we will get creative with what we can cook for dinner, bring for lunch, and eat for breakfast (it’s looking like no cereal this week, but on the flip side, we have about a million and a half English muffins). And, though we could not get everything we wanted, we came to decisions on what we did get as a group. And as we got back to the house, I felt good about how we dealt with this challenge, if not just a little cold from the rain.

In the end, this is why we are here. We’re not here to experience sunny weekends all the time; sometimes, it has to rain. For us, the real meaning lies within the rain. What will happen to me as an individual, and to us as a community, if we choose to deal with these restrictions and challenges, if we choose to let it rain on us? In a broader sense, that is what this whole year here is about. We could have all done the 9 to 5 job thing and come home each night to a warm, food-stocked house. But if we wanted that, we wouldn’t have sought out JVC. We make this commitment to live for a year because we want the challenges. We want to see how we will deal with them, and we need to see how they will affect us.

In a sense, we need the rain.

602 Biddle Street

Where did you go?

I remember when we first met. You stood in front of me, gazing up at my face, staring at the front door as if, after all this time, it could possibly not exist. You walked up to it, and it opened. Something about the way you held your head, or the look in your eyes, a glint that seemed to be the result of the marriage between your mother’s hope and your father’s sacrifice, of the souls of the ones who came before you. You stood there, holding the key to each one of your ancestor’s dreams, the key to something they so desired but could never possess, like Icarus and the call of the sun. You held the key to something your own; you held the key to me.

I gave you four walls and a roof, and you gave me a purpose, a reason to stand tall and strong. You lit up the windows so my eyes could shine upon the street at night. You opened the door so I could always have the chance to speak, even if silence suited me. You painted my face, a bright red, so I could feel beautiful. You gave me a soul.

Where did you go?
I remember the day you left. Your head was held differently, your eyes did not shine like they did before. I wanted to follow you as you walked away that day, and I surely would have had I not been bound to this earth. Unlike you, this street is where I was born, and it is where I will eventually die.

Since you left, no one cares. The paint has worn thin by weather and apathy; my face is old, tired, and gray. The windows are broken from bricks and Molotov cocktails; my eyes shine no longer. The door was boarded up by a man who lives out in the suburbs; my mouth has been rendered mute. My soul, which once soared with the hopes and dreams of your family, now plunges to the bottom with the despair of the squatter and the insanity of the binger.

Where did you go?
I do not know. Maybe you departed for a better neighborhood, maybe you found a street worthy of your feet. I hope you have. But you should know that I miss you, that I need you. I can do better for you, we all can.

Where did you go?
I hope you’ll come back.

Backsweat & Baseball

I can tell that the seasons are changing by looking at the amount of backsweat on my shirt when I get home from work. August and September brought the heat, and my dress shirts and polos held the sweat-soaked outline of my backpack as I pedaled uphill to my house. Now that October has arrived on the scene, the cool fall breeze has deftly disguised my physical exertion as I tool around the streets of Baltimore on my red Giant (brand name, not description of size…because if I really wanted a “giant” bike, I would get one of those early 1900’s types with the huge front wheel and tiny back wheel. Ahh, if only…). While I appreciate the job the breeze has done to mask my sweaty backside, I know it is only a matter of time until the breeze becomes the wind; strong, relentless gusts that attack bikers from every angle except from behind (because that would be appreciated, to be pushed uphill by the wind. Ahh, if only…). Wind is the biker’s worst enemy.

As I approach the two-month mark of being in JVC, I am feeling more at home in Baltimore. The Community Center has offered its share of joys and challenges. Last week Mr. Moore and I conducted a school and community-wide food drive to commemorate Bea Gaddy, who is known as the “St. Theresa of Baltimore.” Ms. Gaddy rose from a life of poverty to become a leading advocate for the poor and homeless of Charm City (that's Baltimore, in case you were unaware). In 1981, she prepared Thanksgiving dinner for 39 people from her own kitchen, and this event grew each year to eventually reach over 25,000 of Baltimore’s neediest citizens. Though Ms. Gaddy died in 2001, the Community Center has continued with the drive, even when other neighborhoods (and even the mayor’s office) have dropped it, so that her spirit may live on. This year’s drive produced over 650 canned goods, and over $300, and increased awareness about the life and work of Bea Gaddy.

My fellow roommates and I enjoyed a nice long weekend when we traveled to our October retreat, which was about an hour south of Baltimore and occurred, oddly enough, at the beginning of October! There we met up with the southern half of JVC East (the Raleigh, DC, Philadelphia, Camden, and Newark houses), and got to hear their tales of glory and splendor since we had last seen them at orientation (we also swapped some of our own stories, like that time we defended the Harbor against an armada of bloodthirsty pirates!) The theme of this retreat was “Community,” and I was surprised at how fruitful the discussions my roommates and I had were. We left the retreat with a renewed sense of purpose and direction, for both our places of employment as well as the goals we hope to accomplish within our house this year.

Overall, life is good. My only real complaint is that, because of this real-life, full-time job, I am forced to watch my Phillies make their playoff run on GameTracker instead of on actual television. Don’t get me wrong, I’m grateful to have an update of the score, but the ambience of playoff baseball is lost somewhere between the batter dressed totally in white and the pitches that have different colored tails following them. It also doesn’t help that Mr. Moore purposely tells me the wrong score every time he sees me. Hey, Mr. Moore! Just because the Orioles are perpetually futile doesn’t mean you have to rain on my parade! Which perhaps will be making its way down Broad St. this time next month?

An official decree to the citizens of Baltimore: Yes, I have been wearing a denim jacket, with sometimes matching denim jeans, whilest riding a bike on your streets. It’s called a Canadien Tuxedo. Deal with it.

A Happy Idiot

Oh, Jackson Browne, you really do tell it like it is. I think of all the facets that make up a year in JVC, the one that stands out most to non-JVers is the fact that we volunteer to live simply, and more specifically, to respectfully refrain from taking a real-live, grown-up salary. I know as well as anyone that money makes the world turn, and by owning “things,” we feel more important within society. So when people find out that I chose as my first full-time job a volunteer position, the questions that inevitably follow are: Why don’t you want to get paid? How do you live on $85 a month?

Well my friend, it’s not that I don’t want to get paid…I do. I like money. It’s nice. It lets me buy food and helps fix my bike and grants me access to places. But as I’ve been learning during my first month at work, it isn’t the be-all end-all of motivation techniques for me.

Last week I may have worked harder for a different reason than I have in any of my previous places of employment (don’t tell Friendly’s that…On second thought, tell them. They don’t control me anymore). There I was, rushing around all week, moving tables, taping floors, singing to kids, making sure all the sisters were happy; all things to make sure the banquet went smoothly. It was good work and it was tiring, and as I stepped back for a second to take stock of where I was (and to let a guy pushing a piano past), I realized I am not working hard in the hope that I will gain any type of personal reward. Rather, I am hustling because in the short amount of time that I have been working at St. Frances, I have come to like it there, and I wanted the sisters to have the best night possible, because they deserved it.

That got me thinking about motivation, about what drives both me and society in general. At all my previous jobs, when the work got tough and stressful, I would always remind myself that a paycheck would be waiting at the end to make it all worth it. Last week, and really throughout the entire time I’ve been here, the concept of striving for money has been virtually non-existent. I realized that the driving force behind me pouring Sunny-D for 30 kids, behind me arranging and rearranging 35 tables for a dinner for nuns, behind me waking up every morning to go to a job that doesn’t pay me above a hundred bucks a month, isn’t, as Jackson Browne so lyrically called, the “struggle for the legal tender.” I go to work, and work hard, because- and get this- I want to. I like my job, I like my boss, and I see this whole thing as something I can get behind. A pretty novel thing, huh?

I've learned that there's something great that is motivating me to be here in Baltimore, and though I can't quite name it, it sure as heck ain't cash.

I’m not here to denounce money and swear that I shall never pursue its greenish hue. I know a lot of people who are doing worthwhile work for a lot of money, and there’s absolutely nothing wrong with that. Money allows you to do many wonderful things. I worry, though, that for much of this world, the dollar has become the end rather than the means. But there is hope for all of Browne’s “Pretenders” out there. If you find yourself living in “a house in the shade of the freeway,” where the neighborhood kids “solemnly wait for the ice cream vendor,” have no fear. Just find something that turns you on, that energizes and inspires you. Find something you love and pursue it. Either that, or join JVC.

I want to know what became of the changes
We waited for love to bring.
Were they only the fitful dreams
Of some greater awakening?
I've been aware of the time going by.
They say in the end it's the wink of an eye.
And when the morning light comes streaming in
You'll get up and do it again.

~ Jackson Browne, "The Pretender"

180 Years

First, let me share with you lyrics to the first song ever written by Mr. Scott & The After School Sillies...

The Weird Song

Verse:
Tape key doesn't paste school
Doll light sun moon rule
Boys closet girls shoe fool
Board move action movement cool

Chorus:
Love see have you run?
What look I what fun!

Verse:
Rain where color I'm red
Outfit pencil mall party bed
Marker tear paper erase head
Pencil markers cow love said

Chorus:
Love see have you run?
What look I what fun!

The Oblate Sisters of Providence 180th Anniversary Banquet occurred Friday night in the gym of the SFA Community Center. With a guest list hovering around 400 people, Mr. Moore certainly had his hands full, and since he refers to me as his right hand man, that must mean some fraction of my hands were full as well. Anytime Mr. Moore needed something done, it was "Scott, move this table," or "Scott, tape the floor down," or "Scott, tell me a funny story." I secretly think he loves my jokes.

When all the work was done and 6:00 rolled around, the gym looked immaculate and the guests looked quite dapper (Mom, you'd be proud- I even threw on a jacket and tie for the affair). My role during the actual event was to more or less direct people where to go, and to generally help Mr. Moore wherever he needed it. This enabled me to walk around and meet a lot of people, and I quite pleased with how good everyone looked- the sisters, friends and families, benefactors- everyone just looked so regal.

Soledad O'Brien, from a little news channel called CNN, was the keynote speaker, and boy was she DELIGHTFUL! Her mother graduated from SFA, and as a child she had a lot of contact with the sisters of OSP, and she was very comfortable and looked at home during the dinner. She spoke about how the education her mother received influenced the way in which she was raised, and furthermore how that comes out in the work she does. I thought it interesting that she considered her job- news casting- a form of service. Well go figure, Soledad, I too consider my job a form of service!

As Soledad spoke (very eloquently, I might add) I watched the faces of the sisters as they listened to her. I feel as if they were looking at their own daughter, not one of flesh and blood, but one born from their community, one that is truly representing the fruits of their 180 years of labor.

I then got to thinking about how long a time 180 years really is. How much has this small order of nuns endured over that time, to still be here today? Slavery, racism, wars, segregation- they dealt with it all, and are still kicking (especially that Sr. Gabriel- she's got a mean right foot!) Soledad said that her mother once told her, "People can't tell you what to do, only God can." The history of the Oblates is a prime example of that.

The evening culminated in a live auction to raise money for the sisters' convent building. Celebrity aprons were up for sale, and people were generous. Aprons designed by Larry King, Anderson Cooper, and Camille Cosby among others, all fetched sizable donations and I think the sisters were truly humbled by the amount of money raised.

All in all, a most enjoyable night, one in which I felt a part of the SFA community. Throughout the evening, the work of the sisters remained in the spotlight, which I feel was in direct contrast to how they live their lives. I would have liked to stay and help clean up, but the effects of a 14 hour work day were being felt by my tired old bones, and my dogs were barking.

I hope everyone had a delightful weekend. If you'll excuse me, my new favorite journalist is on CNN right now, and I promised I'd watch her. Don't start without me, Soledad!!!

Mr. Scott & the After School Sillies

Since the last time you heard from this guy, I…

- proctored an ACT exam
- introduced 30 inner-city school kids to the work of Woody Guthrie
- tried to do the Stanky Leg
- directed a neighborhood trash pick-up with a group of Johns Hopkins students
- was told to “make like horse droppings and hit the road” –a direct quote from Mr. Moore
- enjoyed a delectable dinner (with meat!) with 9 Jesuit priests
- took the news of Donovan McNabb’s broken ribs with a grain of salt
- debated as to whether or not breaking Brad Lidge’s ribs would be a good idea.
- finished perhaps the best-written book I’ve ever read, The Story of Edgar Sawtelle
- made a purchase(?) at a free bookstore

(And so goes a week in the life of a Jesuit Volunteer).

In other news, our After School program started last week, and let me tell you, these kids are a RIOT. Every day at 2:30, around 30 kids from the neighborhood elementary schools (mostly from St. James & and John and Johnston Square) descend upon the Community Center in a fit of unbridled energy reminiscent of certain types of rocket thrusters (I bet you didn’t know I dabble in nuclear rocketry! Well, I don’t!) Irregardless, the little bundles of joy tend to run around the gym haphazardly while I throw perfectly spiraling Hail Mary’s to the boys, and dominate in double-dutch with the girls.

When the little stinkers are plum-tuckered out, we wrangle the lil’ doggies up and feed them snacks (usually a combination of Sunny D and goldfish..mmmmm!) as they work on their homework. Then they take part in some sort of educationally-geared constructive activity (look at me with thess professional-sounding terms! Someone give me an education degree!). Usually it’s art time, computer time, or music time. And guess who is in charge of exposing these little ears and brains to the joy of melodic sounds and words? That’s right, it’s this guy. Details are sketchy, but I’m thinking of creating a 30-piece band that will tour the countryside and win the hearts of millions. Be on the lookout for “Mr. Scott and the After-School Sillies” at an arena near you!

This week is crunch time for Ralph and myself, as the OSP 180th Anniversary Banquet- complete with a speech from Soledad O’Brien!- is on Friday. Much work need be done.

Old Words from Dead Men

What can we learn from the dead? All our lives we are taught our nation’s history, about George W. (the guy with the cherry tree, not the guy with the baseball team) and Honest Abe, about our little Revolution (or, as the British say, “Those colonies are really getting on my nerves!”) and about the South’s little revolution (“States’ rights! And other stuff!”), and about the myriad other people and events that make up the sometimes-filling-yet-always-tasty goulash that is the US of A. Textbooks and war movies are great, but what does it all mean, and why do we love it so much? I was walking around Washington, DC this weekend, minding my own business, as I pondered these questions. It seems to me (or at least it did at the time) that every American has the chance, right, and responsibility to learn from our ancestors, and to apply those lessons to their own lives. Granted, not every American will recognize that point in their life when they will benefit most from the fruits of yesteryear’s labor, and so most of this stuff will just fly right over their heads (if I’m not making any sense, then maybe this applies to you). Maybe it’s my relentlessly cheery disposition, or the fact that at twenty-two years I have perhaps an ounce of life experience upon which to drawn, but I couldn’t help but feel the sensation that the life of this nation is somehow interwoven with my own, and that the effort I am to give this year can benefit greatly from the words of the past (This is good news for you, St. Frances!).

My advice: go to Washington. Go to our nation’s capitol and walk. Just walk. Approach the Washington Monument as if it is the absolute center of the city (Is it? I wish I was a cartographer!) and imagine the throngs of eyes who have gazed up at this towering obelisk. Cross the lawns and look through the gate at the White House. Forget about your current political preference and your personal feelings about the man who resides there, and contemplate the historical significance of this house and how it has shaped the world. Then look around at the people next to you and realize that you could be looking at a future occupant of this house. Or, look at yourself (if you have some sort of inward-gazing eyes- and if so, I want to meet you) and realize the same thing.

Walk around the oval path of the World War II monument. Contemplate the square yardage of this memorial, with its fountains and iron wreaths and pillars that look like gravestones for entire states, and recognize that the size and magnitude of such a tribute could only be meant for a war possessive of those same qualities. Then, continue toward the Lincoln Memorial, stopping to take in and – why not? – reflect at the Reflecting Pool.

Climb the steps of the Lincoln and think about those whose feet have tread upon that same spot. Think about King and about Gump and about the countless other gatherings that have held meaning for someone. Then look up at Lincoln and experience the steadfast, resolute gaze he holds upon this city. Read his words chiseled into the wall, then look at his eyes again.

Go left from Abe’s house and walk the path of the Vietnam War Memorial. Look at the faces, still living, of those who pencil-rub the names of their sons, brothers, friends, husbands. Remember that a name carved into a wall might be all they have left. Consider the cost of war. Then, look at the faces of the statues at the Korean War Memorial, bodies colored in ash-gray that stumble out of trees into a parcel of low bushes. Feel the blank stare of each soldier, the fear in their eyes, their lost and jagged movements, and their concern for the only thing they have left, each other. Again, consider the cost of war.

Find the FDR Memorial (you might have to ask a park ranger for this one) and sit on the lap of the only President to have been elected four times. Wander around this expansive garden and feel the coolness of the waterfalls. Find the statue of the guy leaning towards a radio and pretend to listen along with him. Read Roosevelt’s words, carved into the stone, and realize their relevance for today. Think about what kind of person it takes to trust with the office of the presidency for over a decade. Say goodbye to Eleanor as you exit.

Walk around the Jefferson Memorial before you enter, and consider the position of his statue from all angles. Read the words on the wall, then compare the size of the statue with the surrounding pillars and imagine the words of the Declaration, before they were put to paper. Leave the memorial and gaze out on the body of water that offers a different perspective of the horizon. As you walk back to the Washington Monument, realize that at every memorial you visited, you could always see at least the tip of this tower, and wonder if that was done on purpose. Get back on a train, plane, or car, and replay the images of the day in your mind (and rest your feet, because you did a lot of walking!)

I’m not saying that spending a day looking at statues and reading words will magically give you all the answers to life’s questions. I don’t pretend to know how I will fit into this world, and what I will even be doing this time next year. What I can control though, are my choices, and the present state I find myself in. Giving a year of service to Baltimore will be an experience that guides my future choices and decisions, just as all those history-makers used their own lives as points of reference. Far be it from me to assume that I will end up in the White House (vote Donovan 2024!), but if I can become an American who did something, then I think I will have taken that chance, used that right, and fulfilled that responsibility. But hey, that’s just me.

Check out my photos of Washington, DC here.

A Spent Bullet

Life is real here. I have been in Baltimore for two weeks now, and as I continue to try to put a finger on the pulse of exactly why I am here, I keep coming back to this thought: this place is real, these streets are real, and this life is real.

Mr. Moore took me on another neighborhood walk today, this time deeper into Johnston Square. After introducing me to a man he knew on the street (and after he apparently mistook me for a waiter at Denny’s and asked if I’d bring him a sausage and egg sandwich with a cup of orange juice), we proceeded east on Chase St. until we got to Johnston Square Elementary, where a good number of our after school kids come from. The streets were quiet around there, mostly due to the fact that no one lives in the blocks and blocks of row homes. Boards cover every window and door and yellow signs proclaiming “I Buy Houses” canvas the facades of homes where, once upon a time, this neighborhood had a soul. Mr. Moore mentioned that, years ago, he made it a mission to take down those signs from every house, and according to him, it worked for a time. And perhaps in an act meant to rekindle the fire, I saw him walking back from lunch later that day with a sign under his arm. He told me once, “I’ll support any revolution,” and I smiled when I remembered this.

Along the eastern border of Johnston Square is a center called Dawson’s Safe Haven. Named for the family that died in a housefire started by a Molotov cocktail thrown by a drug dealer, this center was built on the very lot where the Dawsons once lived. Mr. Moore told me the story of how, not long after the fire, all the city’s important officials stood on a stage to dedicate the new center. Poems were read, speeches were given, pictures were taken, and all the while the people looking up at the stage were dissatisfied. “We want jobs, we want homes,” they said, and no speech or publicity event could answer their demands. Even now as I look around, I feel as though they are still waiting for an answer.

Standing on top of Johnston Square, which is actually a small hill in the middle of the neighborhood, I caught a nice view of the downtown skyline. I could even see the golden dome of City Hall, once I’m sure the crown jewel of the city, now dwarfed by the towering edifices of Legg Mason and others. From that viewpoint, I felt worlds away from that part of the city, and I wondered if the people in City Hall could see this hill, this neighborhood, and these people from their perch nestled between the giants of finance and commerce.

We went to the community pool where our summer camp kids go twice a week. This past summer, the city made plans to close it down, only to meet fierce resistance from the community center. Petitions were signed, letters were written, and ultimately the mayor decided to keep this haven open for the kids. I was impressed with the efforts of the center and I told this to Mr. Moore. He was grateful, though wary. He said that we’ll probably have to fight the same battle next summer because, “They keep trying to balance the budget on the backs of the poor.” As we were leaving, he bent down to pick up a small, shiny piece of metal from the concrete. He looked at it, placed it in my hand and said, “Here’s a spent bullet.” It was a shell from a .32 caliber gun, lying on the weed-ridden cement playground, surrounded by broken swings and empty homes.

As we walked back to the community center, I reflected upon all that the children here have to face: the shadow of the penitentiary, the threat of a Molotov cocktail, the haunting reminder of a spent bullet on their playground. Their lives are real, the dangers are real, and the struggle is real. But, as two young girls who came in to the center later in the afternoon showed me by their fierce personalities and fiery tongues, their spirits are real. These kids live this reality every day, yet their spirits are indomitable, and their souls are resolute. The After School Program starts on Wednesday, and I can’t wait.

August's Last Stand

Ahh yes, the end of August, that time of the year when the little kiddies pack up the minivans and head to institutions of higher learning in the hopes that they might become fuller, more worldly persons (at least that's what I hoped for during my first days at SJU. Let's see if that pans out.) As I rolled up to Hopkins today to once again take my share of free internet, I was greeted by a scene that hearkened back to those days spent on the majestic Gest Lawn of my illustrious alma mater, Saint Joseph's. Young men and women, fresh from teary goodbyes with their parents, were sprawled upon what I can only assume to be Johns Hopkins' campus "quad." (after all, I have no idea what this campus looks like.) Grills were smoking, frisbees were flying, and music was blasting as the class of '13 looked to squeeze the last bits of juice out of a succulent summer. As I pushed my bike up to la biblioteca to sit and write to you from this very computer, I lamented the fact that I am no longer in college; those carefree days of fun and excitement are long behind me. However, if I continue to have weekends like the one I just had, then I could certainly get used to this "year of volunteering" thing (hey Mom and Dad, I think I might want to live on a stipend for the rest of my life!)

Friday night was the epitome of thrift. The roomies and I had planned to go to the Orioles game, not so much that we are diehard fans of the O's (though they could use all they help they can get), but because tickets were only 6 dollars. That, coupled with the fact that the JVC office passed on two free tickets, and that Mr. Moore gave us all coupons for free burritos at Chipotle, made for the cheapest night I'd seen since my college days. After enjoying our hot, spicy little bundle of free-ness, we proceeded to Camden Yards, hoping the rain would hold off. Well, it didn't (sort of). The game was delayed for about an hour, which was fine by us because we could sit wherever we wanted (I wanted to sit in the dugout but apparently you need a uniform for that. What kind of rule is that?!) Irregardless, the Orioles beat the Indians by some score that I don't remember, and we had a wonderful time with all 17 of Baltimore's fans.

Saturday was spent playing the legendary game of Ultimate Frisbee. Myself, Kelly and Tom, plus about 15 other people all related to JVC or Jesuits in general met at Druid Hill Park to take part in a friendly game of frisbee-toss. Now, this being the first time I had engaged in such a sport, I have to tell you, it was a BLAST! I couldn't tell if my shirt was drenched from sweat or the humidity, but we were all very fatigued after the game. We spent the afternoon doing some feng-shui'ing of the downstairs furniture, and we spent the night over an intense game of Monopoly (Kelly "technically" won, but I feel I had a better long-term strategy..Long term as in, if the game were to go on for years).

That brings us to today (or Hoy for you Spanish-speakers). On such an immaculately clear day, my only choice was to hop on the ol' two wheeler and pedal down to the Inner Harbor for some people watching. Overall, it was a great weekend in Charm City, one that didn't cost an arm and a leg (which is good, because that would make it difficult for me to ride my bike. That, and I wouldn't be able to do my secret handshake with Mr. Moore).

Hopefully you had a weekend of equal or greater value, and perhaps I would like to hear about it! But for now, please excuse me as I pretend I am a Johns Hopkins student so as to fill my bag with free food and drinks. And maybe a frisbee.

(Check out the photos I took from this weekend here.)

Lessons

So here we are, a few blog posts in, things are going well, you're laughing at my jokes (hopefully) and I'm feeling cool because I have a blog. You might be thinking, "Hey, this is great writing from an intensely funny person, but what is he actually doing in Baltimore? And where the heck is Guilford Ave.?"

I'm glad you asked. I am currently working as a Jesuit Volunteer at the St. Frances Community Center in Baltimore, MD (MD stands for Maryland- you know, the state with the crab cakes and the harbor and all those Catholics). My official title at the center is Assistant Director, though how they came to believe I could assistantly direct anything is beyond me. But hey, we live and we learn, right? Being a Jesuit Volunteer basically means that I pledge to live by the four values of JVC: community, spirituality, social justice, and simple living. More on these fancy concepts later, but simple living means an $85 paycheck each month. So you understand my obsession with meat in the previous post.

Moving right along! During this first week at work, I have been doing a lot of people-meeting and document-reading (I even got an official email address!) Mr. Moore, the Director of the center and my boss, has been keeping me on my toes from the moment I arrive each day. A lifelong Baltimorean (Baltimorean? Baltimorite? Someone from Baltimore?), Mr. Moore has spent the last 8 years at the center and his work has been invaluable to the community. He has a relentlessly engaging personality, he loves Motown music (he told me he was the 6th Temptation. I believed him.), and he even lives 2 blocks from our house!

This week, Mr. Moore took me on a walking tour of the community in which St. Frances resides and which it serves. The neighborhoods I'm talking about are Brentwood Village and Johnston Square, which basically means the area between the Fallsway and Eden St (W to E) and Eager St. to Hoffman St. (S to N) Either get a map and find it, or pretend you know where this is and continue reading.

On our walk, Mr. Moore told me the story of this neighborhood. He told me about the vibrant rowhomes that were built, only to be replaced by high-rise public housing units, and how those were replaced by low-income project homes. He showed me entire blocks of boarded-up windows and doors, and street corners with no local businesses. He told me that average income in this neighborhood hovers around $10,000, and that unemployment hits at 80%. I was losing faith, and I had only been out there for an hour.

Then he told me about 2007, when an open air drug market was forming right outside of St. Frances. Drug dealers were handing out free samples and were violating the unspoken "buffer zone" around the school grounds. Mr. Moore and members of administration (including the JV at the time) organized a "Peace March" through the streets to reclaim their neighborhood. Hundreds of community members walked in solidarity with each other with the steadfast refusal to give up their homes to violence and crime. Banners were posted on lamp posts denoting the "Peace Zone," and they still fly today. I came to realize that St. Frances and the Community Center are beacons of light to this neighborhood that is overshadowed by the daunting tower of the Maryland state penitentary, and that the work we are doing is utterly important.

I look forward to learning from Mr. Moore. He seemed to have a conversation with each person we met on the streets, and a talk between himself and a man named Mr. Jones revealed to me the far-reaching effect of his work, and of the dangers involved in improving this neighborhood. Mr. Jones told me that he would have had a molotov cocktail thrown through his window had he not personally known the members of a gang whom he was accused of selling out to the police. Mr. Moore also said that he would never give out or sell any of the information of the men and women who come to community events (many of whom have troubled pasts). He said that trust is key. This suprised me, then I understood. Life in the city is complex, and how can community leaders like Mr. Moore and Mr. Jones ask for trust and respect if they are not willing to give it to everyone, including criminals?

And so goes another lesson from the illustrious Mr. Moore. I can't wait to see what kind of intellectually-stimulating nugget he has for me tomorrow (I could listen to this man talk all day; he seriously sounds just like James Earl Jones. Maybe I'll try to get him to say "Luke, I am your father," or "Bell Atlantic, the heart of communication." I might even ask him where the Sandlot is!)

Fun With Nuns

My first day of real-live, grown-up, 9-5 work was a lot like my first day of school (minus the unabashed crying and desperate pleading with my mother not to make me go. But who knows? That could still be within the realm of possibilities.) Scarring childhood memories aside, Monday brought all the enchantment and wonder of starting a new chapter in my life at a new job in a new city. So when I arrived at the Community Center, only one thing could quench my excitement and thirst for adventure: A pilgrimage.

8a.m. I arrived at the main office. I met an ocean of new faces, shook a gaggle of hands, and pretended to memorize a litany of new names (apparently no one here has last names; they all introduced themselves as "Tom" or "Linda" etc. Perhaps I've stumbled back in time to pre-Middle Age England. Then again, perhaps not.) During two separate conversations, I think I agreed to become the coach of the school's golf and lacrosse teams, so we'll see how that goes. Anyway, my colleagues (I have colleagues!) and I proceed onto a bus to take part in a pilgrimage around the city of Baltimore to visit historic sites having to do with the founding of our school. Do people with real jobs really go on field trips?

The first stop on our little religious tour-de-force was at the original mother house of the Oblate Sisters of Providence. For ye laymen (and laywomen), the OSP was founded by Mother Mary Lange, who also founded Saint Frances Academy (yes, the very one that now employs this blogger!) Lange was of Haitian descent who came to Baltimore with her family (I think). She began teaching slave children and other children of minorities in the lower chapel (what the nuns now call Chappelle Basse), and this would officially become St. Frances Academy in 1828. A year later, she and three other women took their vows and created the OSP. St. Frances can claim to be the oldest African American Catholic High School in the United States (and some parts of the building look it!)

The tour then continued to the outskirts of the city, where we ate lunch with the sisters at their convent (or mother house, or novitiate, I couldn't tell which..seriously, these religious types have a lot of names for where they live). The sisters provided a delicious meal, and later, I would tell my roommates that I had meat for lunch- HA! After shootin' the breeze with the good ol' sistas, we left the house and traveled to the cemetary where Mother Lange is buried. I was suprised to learn that during the early days of the OSP, when a sister died, she was not permitted to be buried in the main cemetary. Rather, because of the color of her skin (the OSP is predominantly black) a deceased nun was buried on the side of a hill, in a really plain plot of land. It was with a sorrowful feeling that I realized that, even in death, these women still could not achieve equality.

The day was certainly an interesting and appropriate way to start my year. As I meet my new coworkers and continue to learn about the school and community center, I can see Mother Lange and the work of the OSP everywhere. The sense of pride and purpose that the people here have regarding their history is incredible, and I can see the work of Mother Lange permeate through each faculty and staff member.

Today there was no field trip, but I had meat again for lunch! We spent most of the day getting to know each other (meaning the faculty and staff) and later, Mr. Moore took me for a walking tour of the neighborhood. So much did I learn during this healthy gait around Johnston Square that a separate blog is necessary. Suffice it to say that Mr. Moore has an encyclopedic wealth of knowledge about the neighborhood and Baltimore in general, and I cannot wait to learn all I can from him. (And in giving me an idea of what I'll be doing this year, Mr. Moore ran down the calendar of events for the community center, among which is a franks & beans fundraising event in June- more meat!)

So, for being in the real world, this ain't so bad. And hey, I'm still riding my bike to work, just like I did to elementary school. Except this time there aren't any dirt trails to conquer, and my mother isn't looking out our back window to make sure I got to school on time. But who knows? That could still be within the realm of possibilities.

Doctor My Eyes!

Yesterday, my eyes were officially opened to the city, and to this upcoming year in particular. Mr. Moore (my boss) and Tom Malone (Kelly and Tom's boss from Cristo Rey) took us on a bus tour of the agencies where we will be working. First stop was the Public Justice Center, where Amanda will be working. Her boss John (not to mention the champion of all things having to do with our house- can you say hot water? SI SE PUEDE!) was there to greet us and to explain a bit about what PJC does. Basically, they fight for the rights of the underprivileged, marginalized, and ignored members of our society. In particular, Amanda will be working to build a case against the Baltimore County Detention Center, which apparently has been committing some serious acts of omission regarding inmates' health (witholding necessary medication, delayed or no reaction to health problems, lack of over sanitation). Learning about PJC confronted me with the reality of social justice. It is not just feeding the hungry or sheltering the homeless that makes up the bulk of working towards justice and equality. The hard part- the real meat and potatoes- of social justice is facing one's own pre-conceived notions and shaking them up. It's not that I was previously against prisoner's rights; I had just never really thought about them, and the realities they face every day. I am glad there are organizations like the PJC to represent them and I hope to question more of my own realities in the coming year.

We stopped at Cristo Rey Jesuit High School, and I was very impressed. Impressed with the faculty, the facilities, and the students already in class for summer session. CRJ has an interesting set-up: the students are involved in a work-study program in which they work at major corporations and institutions in Baltimore, as well as attend class every day. By doing this, they are able to pay for a part of their tuiton, and also gain valuable real-life skills and business connections. Coming from college, I know how important networking is, and I am impressed that the school has the forsight to get the kids out there now, and that the kids are motivated enough to work for their own education.

Beans & Bread Outreach Center (Rachel's place) was another eye-opening experience. We were there for lunch, and each of us sat down with the clients in the cafeteria and shared a meal with them. I took a seat next to a man and a woman, and immediately I was uncomfortable. The usual questions and comments I make to start conversation suddenly felt useless. "Where do you live?" and "What do you do for a living?" probably didn't apply to these people, and I was stuck at what to say to connect with them. Luckily, the woman quickly pointed out that it was hot outside (which was accurate, to say the least) and that there was a picture of her on the wall. We didn't say much else to each other, but I learned a great deal from her. Though we each come from different worlds, there will always be some basics that connect us, and I will try doing a better job at discovering them.

Don Miller House, our final stop, was again different and the same as the other sites. People living with HIV/AIDs live at the house, and Stacey will be a part of the support staff there. We met Louise, a client who has been living there, and she showed us (very proudly I might add) her room and her flat screen TV. She was especially excited to show us photos of her family, her mother, father, and brothers, as well as a photo of herself when she was eighteen. I wondered where those people are today, and I suspect she sort of did as well.

After a long morning, our pal Mr. Moore treated us to ice cream at a place called Dominion (they had spinach, carrot, and jalapeno ice creams!) The proprietor was more than friendly, and we were sad to learn she is moving soon. All in all, yesterday was a great day to finally see and experience our lives for the next year, and to come to the realization that there is work to be done. And that much of that work is to occur within us.

(I intentionally left out a description of my site, St. Frances Community Center, because I figure that since I'll be there for the whole year, you will get more than enough tasty morsels of insight and commentary. That, and to list all of Mr. Moore's jokes would take eons. That's right, eons.)

The Guilford Guild

well would you look at that! Another blog post! As I find myself here in what I perceive to be the Science and Engineering Library section (lots of smart looking people around, but are they smart enough to know I don't even go to Johns Hopkins? I think not! muahahaha), I have decided to fill you all in the major players of my house...sooo, in no particular order...

Tom is from Holden, Massachusets and will be working as a writing skills (?) teacher at Christo Rey Jesuit High School down near Fell's Point (I believe). Though he is a Villanova grad (gasp!), he's a real stand-up gent, and the rivalry has remained civil (until basketball season at least).

Kelly's birthday is today, the big 2-2. She's from San Diego, CA (groovy) and went to Providence College in RI where she played soccer (or, futbol for my Spanish followers. Do I have Spanish followers?) She too will be working at Christo Rey as a teacher and soccer coach.

Rachel is from Connecticut, and went to Holy Cross (a fellow Jesuit instution). She'll be working at Beans & Bread, which I gather is a homeless shelter/center. She studied abroad for a year in Scotland! Also, she is the resident driver of the house, as she is the only one with a car (the thing with the engine and brakes and steering wheel).

Stacey hails from Colorado Springs, CO and attended Seattle University (in....Seattle!) She'll be working at the Don Miller House, which serves the Homeless/AIDS population of Baltimore. This summer she spent 12 days hiking around Peru, apparently just walking around, saying "Hey!" to Peruvians!

Amanda is a second year JV from Louisville, Kentucky. She spent last year in Syracuse, and this year she's working at the Public Justice Center working on a case for prisoner's rights. Her experience from last year has been a big help to us, and as a bonus, her southern drawl comes out once and a while! How awesome is that, y'all?!

Ok, so that's our merry band (plus me of course). That's it for now, I have to go food shopping and you probably have to do something important. Peace Love Soul Rock & Roll.

Is This Thing On?

Hello World (or, my family and the few friends that care to read this)! It is I, Scott, coming to you live from Baltimore, MD! More specificially, I am coming to you from Johns Hopkins Univ. Library, and even MORE specifically, the computer to the right. Also, I am sitting on a stool. Good, now that we have logistics taken care of, my next point of address is regarding this little electronic tool you now find yourself reading. This is (apparently) a blog, and I am (apparently) a blogger! I wanted to keep you all informed and entertained of my year working as a Jesuit Volunteer in B-more, and I thought getting a letter-writing chain going would be too expensive (plus, I couldn't find any parchment or quills to my liking). Soo, this is where you will be able to read about my trials and triumphs, my escapades and shenanigans, my adventures and misfortunes, and all other goodies that will surely occur this year. I could write more, but this is getting kind of boring, and it's nice outside. Until next time (who knows when that will be? surely not I!), Peace Love Soul Rock & Roll!