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!)