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.