One of my favorite spots around these parts so far is the public pier on the bay near my trailer. I biked down there after work today to watch the fish jump and the sun set and the near-full moon rise. Sea gulls were squawking and fighting over the morsels tossed to them by a man shrimping closer in to shore; a family was fishing down at the end of the dock. I looked up at one point, idly pausing from writing my thoughts in my journal (thanks, Duck!), and happened to spot the king of birds--a great blue heron wading in the reeds. He waded, stood; waded, stood; then flew up to alight on the pier where the shrimper had been a few moments ago. His progress from pier to pier was contemplative, unhurried; eventually he made his way over towards the backwater pond where I usually see him during my morning jogs. He'd been absent this morning, and it was comforting to spy him out on the bay, a missing part of my landscape familiarly restored.
I know you're wishing I'd taken a picture, but some things are infinitely better in person.
The Day Time Stood Still
Close-up of the town Katrina Memorial.
Monday, April 30, 2007
Tuesday, April 24, 2007
Gratitude
is a tricky thing. A letter to the editor from one of our out-of-state volunteers expressed her initial consternation that not all of the residents she had met on the Gulf Coast had made an effort to let her know they appreciated the hard work she and her group had been doing to help rebuild their community.
But by the end of her stay, she had realized that it's pretty difficult to bend over backwards day after day for 19 months to show how grateful you are; and to strangers, no less, who have come to help you because you can't help yourself. Emotional and physical fatigue, an optimistic or pessimistic outlook, pride, frustration, the attempt to preserve a modicum of dignity, the colossal amount of patience and fortitude it takes to negotiate the abyss of recovery red tape here--all figure into a given person's response on a given day, and unfortunately the author of the letter had hit some folks on their off day. But her observation points back to a mantra we like to repeat to our volunteers: It's not about you. No matter how long or how hard or how irritating your work day is, or how little you feel acknowledged by those you are serving, you have still come to serve, to put others before yourself.
(Actually, it really is about the volunteers in the sense that their time here is often a transformative experience--it changes their perspective, reveals their privilege, humbles them, and ignites (or rekindles) their zest for service.
Our aim here is two-fold: to improve the lives and lift the spirits of "the least of these," those hit hard by systemic poverty and by the inegalitarian effects of a catastrophic storm; and to provide an opportunity for members and friends of our denominational community, who are usually more privileged than those they serve, to come down and work side-by-side with their brothers and sisters as they attempt to recover and rebuild. It's definitely a two-way street; but as much as our volunteers give to the homeowners they work with, I hear over and over again how much more the volunteers receive from their hosts. It's a tremendous thing to see someone wake up each morning to a situation you would never want to experience and to witness them face it with grace, dignity, and optimism--and, most times, to be profusely thanked for the one week you are giving up to help move them past that situation.)
But by the end of her stay, she had realized that it's pretty difficult to bend over backwards day after day for 19 months to show how grateful you are; and to strangers, no less, who have come to help you because you can't help yourself. Emotional and physical fatigue, an optimistic or pessimistic outlook, pride, frustration, the attempt to preserve a modicum of dignity, the colossal amount of patience and fortitude it takes to negotiate the abyss of recovery red tape here--all figure into a given person's response on a given day, and unfortunately the author of the letter had hit some folks on their off day. But her observation points back to a mantra we like to repeat to our volunteers: It's not about you. No matter how long or how hard or how irritating your work day is, or how little you feel acknowledged by those you are serving, you have still come to serve, to put others before yourself.
(Actually, it really is about the volunteers in the sense that their time here is often a transformative experience--it changes their perspective, reveals their privilege, humbles them, and ignites (or rekindles) their zest for service.
Our aim here is two-fold: to improve the lives and lift the spirits of "the least of these," those hit hard by systemic poverty and by the inegalitarian effects of a catastrophic storm; and to provide an opportunity for members and friends of our denominational community, who are usually more privileged than those they serve, to come down and work side-by-side with their brothers and sisters as they attempt to recover and rebuild. It's definitely a two-way street; but as much as our volunteers give to the homeowners they work with, I hear over and over again how much more the volunteers receive from their hosts. It's a tremendous thing to see someone wake up each morning to a situation you would never want to experience and to witness them face it with grace, dignity, and optimism--and, most times, to be profusely thanked for the one week you are giving up to help move them past that situation.)
Ain't That America?
My sister's S.O. doesn't particularly appreciate John Mellencamp--in fact, he has a rather creative epithet for the rock'n'roller which is not terribly flattering. But I dig this song of his--Pink Houses--because it gives you vivid snapshots of American life, each one tinged with underlying social commentary (read for yourself at the above link--each verse hits on something that really rings true about our paradoxical, mixed-up society). I think my favorite verse is the first one, because it speaks to what folks here are living through and how they react to their situations with humor and grace and gratitude:
Folks here are up against forces outside their control; they are living in desperate, undignified, seemingly hopeless conditions; and they still thank God every day for waking them up in the morning, for the blessings of family and friends and good food and blue skies and soul-stirring music.
This is not to say that we shouldn't fight the systemic injustices in our world--that we shouldn't protest freeways being built through disenfranchised neighborhoods, or hurricane relief funding getting held up in state and local bureaucracies which deprive storm victims of the funds they urgently need to rebuild their lives***--but it does speak to the fortitude and resiliency of our neighbors. The ability to look at what you have around you, no matter how little it is, and appreciate it--that in itself is a gift, a small miracle.
***Help get HR 1227 passed! HR 1227, already passed in the House with an overwhelming, bipartisan majority, provides funding for hurricane survivors to secure temporary and long-term housing, including public and affordable housing, housing vouchers for elderly, homeless, and disabled people; it also extends the FEMA trailer deadline to December (instead of this summer). In addition, HR 1227 provides increased oversight of the funds the federal government has already earmarked for hurricane rebuilding. Send a letter to the Louisiana senators who are waffling over this bill:
http://www.colorofchange.org/hr1227/?id=2084-124616
or call your Senators to urge them to vote for HR 1227:
http://www.congress.org/congressorg/directory/congdir.tt?command=congdir
Theres a black man with a black cat
Living in a black neighborhood
Hes got an interstate runnin through his front yard
You know, he think, that hes got it so good
And theres a woman in the kitchen
cleanin up the evening slop
And he looks at her and says:
Hey darling, I can remember when you could stop a clock
Folks here are up against forces outside their control; they are living in desperate, undignified, seemingly hopeless conditions; and they still thank God every day for waking them up in the morning, for the blessings of family and friends and good food and blue skies and soul-stirring music.
This is not to say that we shouldn't fight the systemic injustices in our world--that we shouldn't protest freeways being built through disenfranchised neighborhoods, or hurricane relief funding getting held up in state and local bureaucracies which deprive storm victims of the funds they urgently need to rebuild their lives***--but it does speak to the fortitude and resiliency of our neighbors. The ability to look at what you have around you, no matter how little it is, and appreciate it--that in itself is a gift, a small miracle.
***Help get HR 1227 passed! HR 1227, already passed in the House with an overwhelming, bipartisan majority, provides funding for hurricane survivors to secure temporary and long-term housing, including public and affordable housing, housing vouchers for elderly, homeless, and disabled people; it also extends the FEMA trailer deadline to December (instead of this summer). In addition, HR 1227 provides increased oversight of the funds the federal government has already earmarked for hurricane rebuilding. Send a letter to the Louisiana senators who are waffling over this bill:
http://www.colorofchange.org/hr1227/?id=2084-124616
or call your Senators to urge them to vote for HR 1227:
http://www.congress.org/congressorg/directory/congdir.tt?command=congdir
Thursday, April 19, 2007
There Is a Balm in Biloxi
A slam poem written by a colleague of some of our workcampers from Sojourners, a social justice advocacy group addressing the intersection of politics and religion.
I think it is an exemplary use of art, and in particular, slam poetry, to address social justice issues--racism, privilege, corruption, reparations, structural violence, housing inequalities, etc. It also raises what for me is a fundamental question of faith: What, as a Christian, am I called to do in response to injustice and inequality? What are all of us called to do? Christians tend to forget, I think, that Jesus had a radical vision of social equality, what amounted to a paradigmatic shift in relation to the societal structures of the day. We also tend to turn a deaf ear to the call of the prophets, who bid us work for the realization of God's Kingdom here on earth. But there's at least one among us who hasn't forgotten... read on. (It's long, but worth it. Read it aloud for maximum effect.)
THERE IS A BALM IN BILOXI
By Ryan Rodrick Beiler (Sojourners)
sleeping on floors feels hard core but
for those keeping score we still float on inflated pads of privilege on
our own terms taken for granted ignoring our
needles in need of breaching by camels can
one coming this far fail to feel something sacred
seeking to serve in solidarity in spite of
spaces made by races made by men who made our faces favored or flogged
bogged down by bigotry backed by bottom lines
lingering long through our history hysterically hateful or
hidden in habits held harmless but hurting us all
already fallen still calling us names we think we’ve forgotten but
we’ve gotten good at acting our parts enjoying the extras even
at the expense of sisters and brothers unseen for a season often
ignored but regularly revealed by verdicts disasters and everyday encounters with
inequality easily seen by sensitive souls insisting on solving impossible impasses
imposing ideals inferred from faithful philosophy’s philos so we foist
friendship on unsuspecting strangers seek
an end to Sunday morning segregation love
without which we are merely clanging cymbals symbolic
pet projects objects of over-compensation self-deprecation or
projected complexes patronizing paternalizing internalizing superiority passed
through pedagogy parents and presidents dead white men well-meaning or
malicious matters less than persistent conditions of
housing projects profiling police prosecutions prisons and lethal injections or
bad personal decision magnified by malignant manifestations of
massive indefensible disparity damned indefinitely by the assumptions made by
insulated insured unsullied suburban soccer moms of Bashan (Amos 4:1)
bovine buffers bearing the burdens of bad choices bleating
boys will be boys unless they’re black or brown in the wrong part of town
then call Sheriff Brown to take them down and keep them down keep
society safely steeped in silent sins of
systems
made of institutions
made of individuals all
influenced by Evil at each level a legacy seen at sea level in
lessons of levees and lack of planning for people impoverished by
inherited inequality unable to evacuate evaluating inadequate options given by
government given to gaps in attention
inattentive to tensions dissentions of disaffected defectors from
40-acre American myths can’t get no
satisfaction reconstruction reparations missing in action
affirmative action losing traction to so-called color blind code words wielded by
angry factions tactlessly asking for tax cuts in times of
domestic disasters and trillion-dollar pre-emptive unending wars on terror
tacitly seeking cancellation of the debt incurred for incalculable costs when our country made a
killing on middle crossings cotton fields and Jim Crow’s crimes
coffers culled from wages withheld
held hostage by America’s mortgage milked from
African
Asian
Mexican and
First Nations
banks bilked by Manifest Destiny’s dealings and stealings
railroaded ripped-off and ransacked of rights these
wrongs written off without so much as an I.O.U. or interest paid apart from
persnickety PC lip-service spackle over status quo cracks yet
cracker and honky don’t hurt half as much as n-word epithets
evidence that personal prejudice produces pain but
power pulls strings that make minorities
hang on every word
while enlightened whites worry and wonder which terms are fair game
gambling on guesses blessed by banter with buddies of color calling themselves
black or African American
Hispanic or Latino
should I be Anglo Caucasian or European American maybe
mzungu or gringo pick your lingo the
bingo of my birth blessed me with booster boot straps while
other brothers were born with bare feet on flood plains so
I can’t complain or claim total credit for
accomplishments built on benefits from the cream of cursed capital
generated by generals and generations of venerated investments
iterations of inverted perverted priorities placing profit over people
invisible hand over fist a flawed foundation for a nation built by
slaves making bricks without straw success fro some is no excuse for abuse to
call theft a blessing is blasphemous so God bless America as
soon as it admits its errors repents and accepts amazing grace shed on
thee a collective wretch like me I
once was blind but now I’m trying to see still
blurry from crying to God of our weary years and silent tears
shed for the martyrs of
Mississippi
Memphis
the Audubon Ballroom and
Sixteenth Street Baptist Church of Birmingham Alabama
where American terrorists blew up black babies we’re still
treading our path through the blood of the slaughtered this
stony road now watered by floods whose
damage we daily dare to audaciously undo
tenaciously graciously grabbing the hem of our Healer who
stops and names us “daughter”
don’t forget getting your Father’s forgiveness means
following Jesus
seeking justice
on the road to Jericho know who is our neighbor love
the least of these as sisters and brothers bearing God’s image in
spite of society’s assumptions or apathy about the broken Body
barriers built by blissful or willful ignorance expressed in
excuses for absence from the banquet of opportunities to build community
begging off to build bigger barns buy land livestock and lovers all
legitimate interests or idols of adulteration of the germination of
the seeds of the Kingdom seen in Revelation all nations offering adoration wonder
what worship style will win out in eternity’s harmonies of liberty hymns
happy clappy contemporary choruses or gospel glory glory glory hallelujah Lord
I want to be in that number when the saints go marching in a multitude from
every tribe and tongue and nation singing salvation belongs to our God and to the
lamb armed only with the sword of his mouth a
messianic message made plain in the Sermon on the Mount count as blessed all
poor pure peacemakers persecuted meek merciful thirsty and hungry for righteousness better
translated justice is at the bending end of the universe’s long arc according to Martin Luther King
so lift every voice and sing
till earth and heaven ring like
on the Sunday when we were all family at
First Missionary Baptist Church of Biloxi Mississippi warm fuzzies
backed by blood sweat and soul food feasts fixed in FEMA trailers
served by seventy-something saints we’re not worthy we’re not worthy given
our history but hospitality helps heal when we place ourselves in the peril of proximity
will we practice this prescription in our parochial priorities or
avoid going places where we’re the minorities much less the authorities
outside our areas of expertise align ourselves with ambitious agendas to
integrate ideal and real risk a mission impossible
resist the impulse to presidentially limit compassion to
faith-based initiative lip-service lacking bottom-line line-item actions and
truth be told I’m often paralyzed by precedent preventing connection
conventional wisdom weakens the will and the flesh follows familiar formulas
conformed to the pattern of this world forming comfortable communities of
mutual affirmation seeking confirmation through
constant commentaries on common controversies unconvicted by
verses advocating unity over and against separated equality degraded identity a
litany of lament Lord let us lay down our burdens and study war no more emancipate us
from stagnant stasis status quo quorums quote us First and Second Corinthians to
convince us that God’s weakness is wiser than worldly wisdom though
we’re well-versed in avoiding implications of the
ministry of reconciliation i.e. redistribution rich made poor for Christ’s sake and imitation and
Mary’s Magnificat vision of the mighty made low lifting the least of these like
Thy Kingdom come
Thy will be done on earth as it is
in heaven the revolution will not be spiritualized or rationalized away
Revelation’s real vision is the vindication of justice just as described in Psalm 37
Babylon’s bullets and bullies left behind
the end of evil empires’ industrial complexes we shall overcome
win without weapons waging war not as the world but with the Word of
the sharp-tongued Savior a Lion in a Lamb’s attitude
attacking our Adversary with atoning agape
Lord have mercy when you separate the sheep from goats
gauging love for the least of these of ill-health ill-fed ill-clad or incarcerated
clothed with compassion capable of destroying strongholds disarming arguments against
amazing grace how sweet the sound the
song of a saved slave trader truth stranger than
scripture’s impossible prescriptions no fictions
faith moves mountains or moves us to the mountain top so we can see the promised land
the integrated gospel of personal reconciliation and political liberation free at last lest
our hearts drunk with the wine of the world we forget Thee
facing the rising sun
of our new day begun
let us march on
till victory is won
I think it is an exemplary use of art, and in particular, slam poetry, to address social justice issues--racism, privilege, corruption, reparations, structural violence, housing inequalities, etc. It also raises what for me is a fundamental question of faith: What, as a Christian, am I called to do in response to injustice and inequality? What are all of us called to do? Christians tend to forget, I think, that Jesus had a radical vision of social equality, what amounted to a paradigmatic shift in relation to the societal structures of the day. We also tend to turn a deaf ear to the call of the prophets, who bid us work for the realization of God's Kingdom here on earth. But there's at least one among us who hasn't forgotten... read on. (It's long, but worth it. Read it aloud for maximum effect.)
THERE IS A BALM IN BILOXI
By Ryan Rodrick Beiler (Sojourners)
sleeping on floors feels hard core but
for those keeping score we still float on inflated pads of privilege on
our own terms taken for granted ignoring our
needles in need of breaching by camels can
one coming this far fail to feel something sacred
seeking to serve in solidarity in spite of
spaces made by races made by men who made our faces favored or flogged
bogged down by bigotry backed by bottom lines
lingering long through our history hysterically hateful or
hidden in habits held harmless but hurting us all
already fallen still calling us names we think we’ve forgotten but
we’ve gotten good at acting our parts enjoying the extras even
at the expense of sisters and brothers unseen for a season often
ignored but regularly revealed by verdicts disasters and everyday encounters with
inequality easily seen by sensitive souls insisting on solving impossible impasses
imposing ideals inferred from faithful philosophy’s philos so we foist
friendship on unsuspecting strangers seek
an end to Sunday morning segregation love
without which we are merely clanging cymbals symbolic
pet projects objects of over-compensation self-deprecation or
projected complexes patronizing paternalizing internalizing superiority passed
through pedagogy parents and presidents dead white men well-meaning or
malicious matters less than persistent conditions of
housing projects profiling police prosecutions prisons and lethal injections or
bad personal decision magnified by malignant manifestations of
massive indefensible disparity damned indefinitely by the assumptions made by
insulated insured unsullied suburban soccer moms of Bashan (Amos 4:1)
bovine buffers bearing the burdens of bad choices bleating
boys will be boys unless they’re black or brown in the wrong part of town
then call Sheriff Brown to take them down and keep them down keep
society safely steeped in silent sins of
systems
made of institutions
made of individuals all
influenced by Evil at each level a legacy seen at sea level in
lessons of levees and lack of planning for people impoverished by
inherited inequality unable to evacuate evaluating inadequate options given by
government given to gaps in attention
inattentive to tensions dissentions of disaffected defectors from
40-acre American myths can’t get no
satisfaction reconstruction reparations missing in action
affirmative action losing traction to so-called color blind code words wielded by
angry factions tactlessly asking for tax cuts in times of
domestic disasters and trillion-dollar pre-emptive unending wars on terror
tacitly seeking cancellation of the debt incurred for incalculable costs when our country made a
killing on middle crossings cotton fields and Jim Crow’s crimes
coffers culled from wages withheld
held hostage by America’s mortgage milked from
African
Asian
Mexican and
First Nations
banks bilked by Manifest Destiny’s dealings and stealings
railroaded ripped-off and ransacked of rights these
wrongs written off without so much as an I.O.U. or interest paid apart from
persnickety PC lip-service spackle over status quo cracks yet
cracker and honky don’t hurt half as much as n-word epithets
evidence that personal prejudice produces pain but
power pulls strings that make minorities
hang on every word
while enlightened whites worry and wonder which terms are fair game
gambling on guesses blessed by banter with buddies of color calling themselves
black or African American
Hispanic or Latino
should I be Anglo Caucasian or European American maybe
mzungu or gringo pick your lingo the
bingo of my birth blessed me with booster boot straps while
other brothers were born with bare feet on flood plains so
I can’t complain or claim total credit for
accomplishments built on benefits from the cream of cursed capital
generated by generals and generations of venerated investments
iterations of inverted perverted priorities placing profit over people
invisible hand over fist a flawed foundation for a nation built by
slaves making bricks without straw success fro some is no excuse for abuse to
call theft a blessing is blasphemous so God bless America as
soon as it admits its errors repents and accepts amazing grace shed on
thee a collective wretch like me I
once was blind but now I’m trying to see still
blurry from crying to God of our weary years and silent tears
shed for the martyrs of
Mississippi
Memphis
the Audubon Ballroom and
Sixteenth Street Baptist Church of Birmingham Alabama
where American terrorists blew up black babies we’re still
treading our path through the blood of the slaughtered this
stony road now watered by floods whose
damage we daily dare to audaciously undo
tenaciously graciously grabbing the hem of our Healer who
stops and names us “daughter”
don’t forget getting your Father’s forgiveness means
following Jesus
seeking justice
on the road to Jericho know who is our neighbor love
the least of these as sisters and brothers bearing God’s image in
spite of society’s assumptions or apathy about the broken Body
barriers built by blissful or willful ignorance expressed in
excuses for absence from the banquet of opportunities to build community
begging off to build bigger barns buy land livestock and lovers all
legitimate interests or idols of adulteration of the germination of
the seeds of the Kingdom seen in Revelation all nations offering adoration wonder
what worship style will win out in eternity’s harmonies of liberty hymns
happy clappy contemporary choruses or gospel glory glory glory hallelujah Lord
I want to be in that number when the saints go marching in a multitude from
every tribe and tongue and nation singing salvation belongs to our God and to the
lamb armed only with the sword of his mouth a
messianic message made plain in the Sermon on the Mount count as blessed all
poor pure peacemakers persecuted meek merciful thirsty and hungry for righteousness better
translated justice is at the bending end of the universe’s long arc according to Martin Luther King
so lift every voice and sing
till earth and heaven ring like
on the Sunday when we were all family at
First Missionary Baptist Church of Biloxi Mississippi warm fuzzies
backed by blood sweat and soul food feasts fixed in FEMA trailers
served by seventy-something saints we’re not worthy we’re not worthy given
our history but hospitality helps heal when we place ourselves in the peril of proximity
will we practice this prescription in our parochial priorities or
avoid going places where we’re the minorities much less the authorities
outside our areas of expertise align ourselves with ambitious agendas to
integrate ideal and real risk a mission impossible
resist the impulse to presidentially limit compassion to
faith-based initiative lip-service lacking bottom-line line-item actions and
truth be told I’m often paralyzed by precedent preventing connection
conventional wisdom weakens the will and the flesh follows familiar formulas
conformed to the pattern of this world forming comfortable communities of
mutual affirmation seeking confirmation through
constant commentaries on common controversies unconvicted by
verses advocating unity over and against separated equality degraded identity a
litany of lament Lord let us lay down our burdens and study war no more emancipate us
from stagnant stasis status quo quorums quote us First and Second Corinthians to
convince us that God’s weakness is wiser than worldly wisdom though
we’re well-versed in avoiding implications of the
ministry of reconciliation i.e. redistribution rich made poor for Christ’s sake and imitation and
Mary’s Magnificat vision of the mighty made low lifting the least of these like
Thy Kingdom come
Thy will be done on earth as it is
in heaven the revolution will not be spiritualized or rationalized away
Revelation’s real vision is the vindication of justice just as described in Psalm 37
Babylon’s bullets and bullies left behind
the end of evil empires’ industrial complexes we shall overcome
win without weapons waging war not as the world but with the Word of
the sharp-tongued Savior a Lion in a Lamb’s attitude
attacking our Adversary with atoning agape
Lord have mercy when you separate the sheep from goats
gauging love for the least of these of ill-health ill-fed ill-clad or incarcerated
clothed with compassion capable of destroying strongholds disarming arguments against
amazing grace how sweet the sound the
song of a saved slave trader truth stranger than
scripture’s impossible prescriptions no fictions
faith moves mountains or moves us to the mountain top so we can see the promised land
the integrated gospel of personal reconciliation and political liberation free at last lest
our hearts drunk with the wine of the world we forget Thee
facing the rising sun
of our new day begun
let us march on
till victory is won
Wednesday, April 18, 2007
Wednesday Night Revival
A Baptist revival, for those who have never been to one, is like a rock concert with the preacher as lead singer, the chancel choir as the back-up singers, the organ, piano, and drum set as the band, the chancel as the stage, and the sermon as the star's best-known rock anthem.
The "set" starts out with some of that pre-song patter, introducing the sermon's theme and reading the pertinent Bible verses; as the sermon progresses, the piano and organ start providing a little background to the preacher's spoken words; then things heat up fast, with the preacher beginning to not just hum in between important phrases, but outright sing the message. The band picks up the tempo, the musicians get louder, and the Amens and My, my s from the choir and the front rows add to the buzz. Then the whole congregation gets into it, swaying and clapping and hollering, following the preacher's ascent until things are at a fever pitch, and the preacher is sweating, and the people are swooning, and the organist is bouncing on his bench and the deacons are running up and down the aisles... you almost expect a moshpit to break out up near the altar. Things keep getting hotter and hotter until the preacher blows himself out on the last electric riff of his sermon--"Wake Uticus UUUUUUUUP!!!!"--and turns and walks straight off the chancel/stage and out the vestry door, like the explosive finale of a sold-out show. And at the very end, after the altar call and the prayer circle and the choir benediction, he briefly re-enters, making an encore appearance for his loyal fans. The last blessing is said, and the faithful concertgoers file out of their pews, hugging and greeting each other, all a-tingle from the fiery performance. The host deacon shakes hands at the door, but The Preacher himself is nowhere to be seen--you can almost picture little Sunday school students lining up at the back entrance to the church for a chance to get his autograph.
Not bad, for a profession often seen as stuffily unglamourous and uptight.
The "set" starts out with some of that pre-song patter, introducing the sermon's theme and reading the pertinent Bible verses; as the sermon progresses, the piano and organ start providing a little background to the preacher's spoken words; then things heat up fast, with the preacher beginning to not just hum in between important phrases, but outright sing the message. The band picks up the tempo, the musicians get louder, and the Amens and My, my s from the choir and the front rows add to the buzz. Then the whole congregation gets into it, swaying and clapping and hollering, following the preacher's ascent until things are at a fever pitch, and the preacher is sweating, and the people are swooning, and the organist is bouncing on his bench and the deacons are running up and down the aisles... you almost expect a moshpit to break out up near the altar. Things keep getting hotter and hotter until the preacher blows himself out on the last electric riff of his sermon--"Wake Uticus UUUUUUUUP!!!!"--and turns and walks straight off the chancel/stage and out the vestry door, like the explosive finale of a sold-out show. And at the very end, after the altar call and the prayer circle and the choir benediction, he briefly re-enters, making an encore appearance for his loyal fans. The last blessing is said, and the faithful concertgoers file out of their pews, hugging and greeting each other, all a-tingle from the fiery performance. The host deacon shakes hands at the door, but The Preacher himself is nowhere to be seen--you can almost picture little Sunday school students lining up at the back entrance to the church for a chance to get his autograph.
Not bad, for a profession often seen as stuffily unglamourous and uptight.
Strawberry Fest
This past weekend I again crossed state lines in search of good friends and a good drink. Most of my weekend time is spent doing things like learning how to use a nail gun, digging through large amounts of rotting organic material and composting earthworms, rescuing turtles stranded mid-highway, cleaning trailers and RVs, and church-hopping (another effect of having no UCC congregations in Mississippi--I am forever bouncing from Missionary Baptist to Methodist to Episcopal and beyond). But somehow, it is more fun to tell stories involving line-dancing and 3am truck stop diner buffets than it is to recount the wonders of emptying the toilet holding tank on my RV.I motored over to Louisiana in the driving rain on Saturday afternoon, stopping in Ponchatoula once the weather had cleared for that town's famous Strawberry Fest. Strawberry Fest is your typical town festival deal, only it revolves around all things Strawberry--strawberry shortcake, fresh strawberries, strawberry daiquiris and margaritas, chocolate-dipped strawberries, strawberry wine (and endless playing of that venerable country tune), strawberry pendant necklaces and earrings, strawberry plants... I sampled a strawberry margarita and a strawberry dipped in what tasted like nutty-fudgy brownie batter. Dee-vine. I also visited the Turquoise Coyote, a gem of a bead and jewelry store with a Southwestern theme. If you are at all a fan of jewelry-making, or of antiques, and you are driving through southeast Louisiana, you should visit Ponchatoula, America's Antique City.*
This was all on my way to visit a friend from school who lives on her family's farm in Tangipahoa [Tanj-ih-pa-hoe] Parish. They raise cattle and timber, and it's sort of a gathering place for all W alums in the Louisiana-Mississippi area under the age of 30--A's mother has an open-door policy and showers true Southern hospitality and cooking on all her daughters' vagabond friends.**
The reason for this weekend's gathering was a David Allan Coe concert at The Stampede, a local honkytonk. (Definition of 'honkytonk': any establishment south of the Mason-Dixon line combining a bar and a dance floor, showcasing line-dancing or the two-step; particularly, such an establishment frequented by cowboy wannabes and rednecks, hence honkytonk.)
The beautiful thing about the kind of social dancing found at such places is that it's actually social--there is a set of commonly known dance steps which allows strangers to interact with each other in a way that mercifully avoids grinding, humping, etc. This means that folks dance with all sorts of partners, and pairing up with a given individual for a song or two doesn't mean that you are confined to that person for the rest of the night or that you are going home with him/her. So we had a great time kickin' up our heels with our friends and with friends of friends, and with friends of friends of friends--even though we were 20 miles from A's house, it seemed like she knew everyone, and if she didn't know someone, she knew their uncle's cousin's grade school teacher's daughter's boyfriend. Or his dog.
There's just something satisfyingly carefree about a night of good dancing with your friends. I can't think of a better way to spend a Saturday evening, even if it does involve witnessing folks falling-off-their-chairs drunk or wearing Confederate fishing hats (you thought I made that up, didn't you??).
The next day involved sleeping in, touring the farm, and trying to get one of A's heifers back up on her feet--she'd been sick and unresponsive for the last few days, and they may end up having to shoot her. We also planted lilies at A's grandfather's grave, and took a run distributing what I like to call "cow crack"--high-protein supplemental pellets that look like gigantic guinea pig food. If you ever want to see a herd of stoic, stand-offish cows get real excited and trot after your pickup truck like you're Santa Claus with a sleigh loaded with pre-chewed cud, get a bag of these pellets and pour a trail of them out behind you. You will see those slow-footed sourpusses perk up like comatose teenagers awoken by the end-of-school bell--running as fast as they can from one pile to the next, nudging each other out of the way and gobbling up little gray cylinders like kids in a candy shop. Mm mm, good!
Despite the fact that I got a flat tire outside of town on the way back, it was a great weekend--time to relax, make new friends, eat some real home cookin', and consume a whole stack of pickles straight out of the jar. Nothing like beer munchies!
This weekend it's time for the Crawfish Festival... even though it takes me half an hour to eat half a dozen crawfish, I can't wait!
*More fun facts about Ponchatoula: Home of the Strawberry Farmers' Wall of Honor; recognized in 1936, by the federal government as the greatest shipping point of strawberries in the world. Ponchatoula derives its name from the Choctaw Indian language meaning "hair to hang" because of the abundance of Spanish moss on the trees surrounding the area. http://ci.ponchatoula.la.us/ and http://www.ponchatoula.com/
**More on Southern Hospitality, the code of which is politely but firmly etched in stone, iron-bound by honor, and festooned with food and drink:
Once I tried to pay for lunch at the local Oyster Fest (a lot of the social scene in these parts revolves around _insert regional food specialty here_ Fests)--fried oyster po boys all around, and for me, my very first slippery, uncooked bivalve. I followed our waiter over to the cash register nook, handed him cash, and explicitly instructed him not to let A and her mother pay for me, because this was my way of showing gratitude for their hosting me. He played along and my fiendishly smooth plan went swimmingly... until he asked if they needed anything more, A. and her mom asked for the check, and I said I'd taken care of it. Out came the credit card, onto the table came the "We're locals" trump card, and back came my cash (except the tip, which they actually let me get!!).
Tuesday, April 17, 2007
"Louisiana Woman, Mississippi Man"
My current theme song, as performed by Loretta Lynn and Conway Twitty. Because we have both kinds of music down here: Country and Western. 
With a Louisiana woman waitin' on the other side
The Mississippi River don't look so wide.
Well, I thought I'd been loved but I never had
Till I was wrapped in the arms of a Mississippi man.
When he holds me close it feels almost
Like another hurricane just ripped the coast.
...The Mississippi River can't keep us apart
There's too much love in this Mississippi heart.
Too much love in this Louisiana heart...
Stars Fell On...
Alabama!
One night the week before last, a friend asked me if I had ever been to Alabama. Much to my dismay, I hadn't yet had the occasion to make it to the Yellowhammer State (http://www.50states.com/bio/nickname1.htm), and so I told him. "Me neither," he said, "let's go!"
Alabama is a good 40 miles down the coast--but gas prices nearing $3.00 weren't about to stop us on our eastbound escapade! Besides, it was 10 o'clock on a Friday night, and it's not like either of us had to be up at the crack of dawn for a Saturday morning airport run... of course not. Ever notice how the attractiveness of a potential adventure (at least for the foolhardy) is directly related to its ridiculousness?
So we headed for the state line in Emerald, my sweet little electric-green, second-hand Prius. At the first Alabaman (Alabamite? Alabamian??) rest stop--the one with the Welcome to Alabama sign--we cheered triumphantly, then took pictures of ourselves in front of the sign (they didn't turn out so well, because highway signs are extremely reflective and human beings are not). This antic earned us some honks from passing cars, whose drivers, I'm sure, could only wish they were as classy as we were, taking self-portraits. Ah, the virgin ground of a brand-new state! It's almost as intoxicating as inhaling that new-car smell.
Just knowing I can cross another one of the 50 Nifty United States off my official "Been There, Done That" list gets me high. But we decided it couldn't be an official Visit to a New State without the inclusion of some sort of concrete activity involving at least an hour or so on Alabaman (Alabamish? Alabaster??) soil. What are two twenty-somethings going to find to do at 10:45 on a Friday night, when all the libraries and tea parlors are closed?
...and this is how we ended up at the Blue Bayou Lounge in Grand Bay, Alabama, of which I am now a card-carrying member. (Literally, they required me to fill out a membership form and sign a card before they would let us order, and I now carry that card in my wallet, for want of a better place to keep it.) But my induction into Blue Bayou Barhood was not the most hair-raising part of our visit--for that adjective, it's a toss-up between the Blue Bayou wall décor (a gigantic Confederate flag across the back wall, complemented by several blown-up photographs and table découpages of JFK, a smattering of Elvis paraphernalia, and a portrait of Princess Di) and the locals at the bar, one of whom was so inebriated that he threw quarters at us while we were playing pool. We couldn't make out if he wanted to join our game, or if he wanted us to feed the jukebox for him, or if he thought he was at a different sort of establishment... I've never had quarters thrown at me before, and their meaning is a little difficult to interpret.
Then again, when we pushed open the heavy metal door to the Blue Bayou Lounge and walked in, one of us wearing a crunchy knit-hat and cargo jacket ensemble and the other decked out in a headband color-coordinated to match her racer hoodie, the poor bartender must have asked herself what in the hootenanny we were doing in her establishment.
Mutual culture shock, anyone?
One night the week before last, a friend asked me if I had ever been to Alabama. Much to my dismay, I hadn't yet had the occasion to make it to the Yellowhammer State (http://www.50states.com/bio/nickname1.htm), and so I told him. "Me neither," he said, "let's go!"
Alabama is a good 40 miles down the coast--but gas prices nearing $3.00 weren't about to stop us on our eastbound escapade! Besides, it was 10 o'clock on a Friday night, and it's not like either of us had to be up at the crack of dawn for a Saturday morning airport run... of course not. Ever notice how the attractiveness of a potential adventure (at least for the foolhardy) is directly related to its ridiculousness?
So we headed for the state line in Emerald, my sweet little electric-green, second-hand Prius. At the first Alabaman (Alabamite? Alabamian??) rest stop--the one with the Welcome to Alabama sign--we cheered triumphantly, then took pictures of ourselves in front of the sign (they didn't turn out so well, because highway signs are extremely reflective and human beings are not). This antic earned us some honks from passing cars, whose drivers, I'm sure, could only wish they were as classy as we were, taking self-portraits. Ah, the virgin ground of a brand-new state! It's almost as intoxicating as inhaling that new-car smell.
Just knowing I can cross another one of the 50 Nifty United States off my official "Been There, Done That" list gets me high. But we decided it couldn't be an official Visit to a New State without the inclusion of some sort of concrete activity involving at least an hour or so on Alabaman (Alabamish? Alabaster??) soil. What are two twenty-somethings going to find to do at 10:45 on a Friday night, when all the libraries and tea parlors are closed?
...and this is how we ended up at the Blue Bayou Lounge in Grand Bay, Alabama, of which I am now a card-carrying member. (Literally, they required me to fill out a membership form and sign a card before they would let us order, and I now carry that card in my wallet, for want of a better place to keep it.) But my induction into Blue Bayou Barhood was not the most hair-raising part of our visit--for that adjective, it's a toss-up between the Blue Bayou wall décor (a gigantic Confederate flag across the back wall, complemented by several blown-up photographs and table découpages of JFK, a smattering of Elvis paraphernalia, and a portrait of Princess Di) and the locals at the bar, one of whom was so inebriated that he threw quarters at us while we were playing pool. We couldn't make out if he wanted to join our game, or if he wanted us to feed the jukebox for him, or if he thought he was at a different sort of establishment... I've never had quarters thrown at me before, and their meaning is a little difficult to interpret.
Then again, when we pushed open the heavy metal door to the Blue Bayou Lounge and walked in, one of us wearing a crunchy knit-hat and cargo jacket ensemble and the other decked out in a headband color-coordinated to match her racer hoodie, the poor bartender must have asked herself what in the hootenanny we were doing in her establishment.
Mutual culture shock, anyone?
Blue Bayou--Part Deux
Taking a moment to consider the Lounge's wall decorations--in particular the Confederate flag plastered across the whole of the back wall: it is a funny feeling to drive around town or be out on a jog and suddenly see the Stars and Bars snapping proudly in front of a seafood store, a baseball field, a school, a police station... The Confederate Hex, as it's also known, is the canton on the upper left-hand of the Mississippi state flag. There are very strong feelings on both sides of this issue, most notably the "Heritage, Not Hate" folks who maintain that the flag is a symbol of state and regional history honoring those who gave their lives for the Confederate cause, not a reminder of the inhumanity of slavery or a banner for modern-day racism. Others feel that Hurricane Katrina was God's punishment for keeping the Southern Cross on the state flag--according to my boss, after the storm you could see houses and buildings spray-painted with the words "Remove the Hex."My view on this, though I am obviously not an involved party other than that I am temporarily living under the flag, is that "Heritage" is appropriate for Confederate cemeteries and war memorials, not for state capitols and school assemblies. Private usage of the flag is another issue (although just as callous and distasteful, says the progressive Yankee in me). But as far as state and local governmental institutions are concerned, the state of Mississippi has long since resumed its membership in the Union; and although the Confederacy looms large in both the local psyche and the annals of state history, I think it should remain just that: history.
I also don't think Hurricane Katrina was God's punishment for anything (including the parades and practices of the notoriously flamboyant gay population in the French Quarter, as some fundamentalist preachers claimed--http://www.ekklesia.co.uk/content/news_syndication/article_050831.shtml), so I find it a bit preposterous, and not a little offensive, to suggest that for whatever reason the victims of the storm deserved to lose their lives, their homes, their friends, and their communities, not to mention any form of normalcy or stability. My God isn't a vengeful one.
Finally, none of my ancestors were slaves (see the title of this blog), so I can't say how I feel about the flag as a symbol of hate--some descendants of slaves see it as a heinous throwback meant to revive racial injustice and hatred, while others don't feel especially threatened or affected by it, asserting that there are larger issues at stake for the black community (http://www.issues-views.com/comment.php/article/22094).
In any case, the "Heritage, Not Hate" argument doesn't hold water for me--so take it off the state flag, for Pete's sake! There are enough hexes adorning license plates, bar rooms, and fishing hats around these parts to more than compensate for removing it from the state standard.
Who would have thought that a spontaneous cross-state beer run would have inspired such reflection?
Disclaimer: I should point out that there is a general trend of eastward discrimination amongst Gulf Coast states. Texans feel that Louisiana is a hick state; Louisianans feel that Mississippians are at least one rung down on the social ladder; Mississippians thumb their magnolia-smelling noses at Alabama residents; Alabamans console themselves by saying At least we aren't Florida Panhandlers!, etc. Also, I wouldn't wish the whole of Alabama to be judged by my impressions of one visit to a bordertown watering hole--first of all, the ladies at the Quickie Mart who directed us to the Blue Bayou were just lovely, very helpful; and secondly, I obviously have very limited exposure to the state. For instance, I haven't even been to the giant flea market in Mobile--from what I hear, that alone will boost my opinion of the state off the charts!
Thursday, April 12, 2007
Wait for the Rain
Not that it's been dry here the past week or so... we did indeed have snow-like sleet accumulation on the rooftops last weekend for Easter--cold and wet just like every other Easter of my (mostly) Northern life, when I have come to the South for some HEAT, dammit!--and the rain on Monday meant that the crushed concrete one of our volunteer workcrews was layering into a pit for a client's driveway turned into a quicksand soup.
No, "Wait for the Rain" ain't a weather report down here--it was the theme of Rev. Don's sermon yesterday evening at the Wednesday night prayer and Bible study service at First Missionary Baptist. Don is my co-worker and a UCC pastor, but his was a traditionally religious African-American upbringing in the Carolinas, so when he's in town he attends and sometimes preaches at 1st Missionary.* And every Monday and Tuesday, he spends an hour or so rehearsing with the week's workcrew, teaching them a few African-American spirituals so that they can sing at the Wednesday night service. Watching all these white folks, who are used to a more staid, reserved worship style, stand up in front of the church and attempt singing, swaying, and clapping all at the same time, it never fails to strike me as a strange combination of earnestness and entertainment--a heartfelt offering by the workcampers to the community they are serving, and a source of well-concealed mirth for their black brothers and sisters sitting in the pews and politely nodding their heads and clapping along--I'm sure they must wonder what in the Good Lord's name these white people are doing trying to sing songs of a style wrought in the fiery furnaces of slavery, an institution of complicity for the forefathers and mothers of their race.
Some weeks go better than others, musically speaking; but because it is well-meant, the whole production is always well-received. Oh, and I forgot the kicker--Rev. Don always accompanies this crack choir on an electronic keyboard, playing in whatever key it is that is made up of all black notes. No matter what the song is or what key it was originally intended to be sung in. It's a trip.
Now that the stage is set:
Don is a rather quiet, reserved sort of man in large group settings--he is the one who will sit back and wait until directly called upon to make a contribution. But get him into a pulpit, and he lets go. I've literally seen him shimmy-shake across the chancel and run laps around the aisles, and if there's a sermon going, his own personal Amen chorus of Yeahs, Wells, MmHmms and Halleluuuu-jahs! can be heard all over the sanctuary. Last night he was filling in for Rev. Dickie, who was preaching at a revival down the street (more about that later), and when he took the microphone to preach about Elijah's prophecy that the drought he had called down upon wicked King Ahab's land was about to end, proving God's supremacy to the deity Baal, he called to mind one of those Hollywood-movies-in-30-seconds skits: back and forth, back and forth he pantomimed EACH ONE of Elijah's servant's seven trips to the mountaintop to see if rain was coming. There is something of a storyteller in Don, methinks.
Anyway, Elijah has heard the sound of an "abundance of rain," and Elijah's servant finally spots a cloud the size of a man's hand--and that sent Don off into a Spiritual Weather Report about outlasting your soul's dry spells, faithfully waiting for God's blessings to water your soul. His message resonated particularly for me, as I've just been through my own spiritual drought and I feel like coming to serve on the Gulf Coast was exactly what my parched soul needed. I could feel the individual water droplets plunking down onto the cracked earth--the story a workcamper shared about the astonishment of seeing a little boy who had been living in a crowded, unsanitary FEMA trailer run into a freshly dry-walled room and exclaim "I have a room!"; witnessing the transformations volunteers undergo in their short time working here; the humbling, overpowering ability to pick up my phone when someone calls on behalf of a family stranded, destitute, in a campground, and put them through to our caseworker, our SuperWoman, who can help them even though I can't; the profound peace of a simple beachside Maundy Thursday service with new, compassionate friends; the sight of a pelican or a great blue heron taking off, startled by my morning jogs.
I had to wait a while for those raindrops, and I didn't always know if I was capable of receiving them in the same carefree way I had before, if I could return to the same way of believing that I had grown up with. But as Elijah promised it would, it came--first as a cloud on the horizon, no bigger than a man's fist, then as a spring drizzle, then as a downpour of blessings that hasn't yet let up.
As they say at 1st Missionary Baptist: "God is good... Allll the time."
*There are no United Church of Christ congregations in the state of Mississippi. There used to be a handful, but they chose to integrate during the Civil Rights movement and, in addition to losing membership, their remaining congregants faced so much aggression and harassment at work and on the streets for their association with such a "radical" denomination that they felt they had to close those wide-open doors, or face even worse--bricks through windows, firebombings, etc. So much for "Thy Kingdom come, on earth as it is in heaven."
No, "Wait for the Rain" ain't a weather report down here--it was the theme of Rev. Don's sermon yesterday evening at the Wednesday night prayer and Bible study service at First Missionary Baptist. Don is my co-worker and a UCC pastor, but his was a traditionally religious African-American upbringing in the Carolinas, so when he's in town he attends and sometimes preaches at 1st Missionary.* And every Monday and Tuesday, he spends an hour or so rehearsing with the week's workcrew, teaching them a few African-American spirituals so that they can sing at the Wednesday night service. Watching all these white folks, who are used to a more staid, reserved worship style, stand up in front of the church and attempt singing, swaying, and clapping all at the same time, it never fails to strike me as a strange combination of earnestness and entertainment--a heartfelt offering by the workcampers to the community they are serving, and a source of well-concealed mirth for their black brothers and sisters sitting in the pews and politely nodding their heads and clapping along--I'm sure they must wonder what in the Good Lord's name these white people are doing trying to sing songs of a style wrought in the fiery furnaces of slavery, an institution of complicity for the forefathers and mothers of their race.
Some weeks go better than others, musically speaking; but because it is well-meant, the whole production is always well-received. Oh, and I forgot the kicker--Rev. Don always accompanies this crack choir on an electronic keyboard, playing in whatever key it is that is made up of all black notes. No matter what the song is or what key it was originally intended to be sung in. It's a trip.
Now that the stage is set:
Don is a rather quiet, reserved sort of man in large group settings--he is the one who will sit back and wait until directly called upon to make a contribution. But get him into a pulpit, and he lets go. I've literally seen him shimmy-shake across the chancel and run laps around the aisles, and if there's a sermon going, his own personal Amen chorus of Yeahs, Wells, MmHmms and Halleluuuu-jahs! can be heard all over the sanctuary. Last night he was filling in for Rev. Dickie, who was preaching at a revival down the street (more about that later), and when he took the microphone to preach about Elijah's prophecy that the drought he had called down upon wicked King Ahab's land was about to end, proving God's supremacy to the deity Baal, he called to mind one of those Hollywood-movies-in-30-seconds skits: back and forth, back and forth he pantomimed EACH ONE of Elijah's servant's seven trips to the mountaintop to see if rain was coming. There is something of a storyteller in Don, methinks.
Anyway, Elijah has heard the sound of an "abundance of rain," and Elijah's servant finally spots a cloud the size of a man's hand--and that sent Don off into a Spiritual Weather Report about outlasting your soul's dry spells, faithfully waiting for God's blessings to water your soul. His message resonated particularly for me, as I've just been through my own spiritual drought and I feel like coming to serve on the Gulf Coast was exactly what my parched soul needed. I could feel the individual water droplets plunking down onto the cracked earth--the story a workcamper shared about the astonishment of seeing a little boy who had been living in a crowded, unsanitary FEMA trailer run into a freshly dry-walled room and exclaim "I have a room!"; witnessing the transformations volunteers undergo in their short time working here; the humbling, overpowering ability to pick up my phone when someone calls on behalf of a family stranded, destitute, in a campground, and put them through to our caseworker, our SuperWoman, who can help them even though I can't; the profound peace of a simple beachside Maundy Thursday service with new, compassionate friends; the sight of a pelican or a great blue heron taking off, startled by my morning jogs.
I had to wait a while for those raindrops, and I didn't always know if I was capable of receiving them in the same carefree way I had before, if I could return to the same way of believing that I had grown up with. But as Elijah promised it would, it came--first as a cloud on the horizon, no bigger than a man's fist, then as a spring drizzle, then as a downpour of blessings that hasn't yet let up.
As they say at 1st Missionary Baptist: "God is good... Allll the time."
*There are no United Church of Christ congregations in the state of Mississippi. There used to be a handful, but they chose to integrate during the Civil Rights movement and, in addition to losing membership, their remaining congregants faced so much aggression and harassment at work and on the streets for their association with such a "radical" denomination that they felt they had to close those wide-open doors, or face even worse--bricks through windows, firebombings, etc. So much for "Thy Kingdom come, on earth as it is in heaven."
Wednesday, April 11, 2007
Welcome to the Coast
I've been on the Gulf Coast of Mississippi for just over three weeks now, working as a volunteer coordinator for a faith-based community justice ministry. It's not my first time down here, or my first time working on the Gulf Coast since Hurricane Katrina hit, but my term of service--9 months--will definitely be the longest, most intense, and, I hope, most rewarding experience yet. It's my aim while here to try to answer the call of the prophet Micah: "What does the Lord require of you but to do justice, to love kindness, and to walk humbly with your God?" while I serve those around me.
My role is to coordinate volunteers who come in from all over the country to spend a week rehabilitating the houses and the lives of those hit hard by Katrina. I do logistics, provide hospitality, and basically try to make their stay here meaningful and profitable both to them and to the under-resourced, underprivileged clients we serve (we typically work with community members whose income falls below 40-60% of the AMI [Area Median Income] or who are homeless). In theory, I facilitate direct service rather than hammering the nails myself; but it often happens that I'm in work clothes, loading tile or carrying sheet rock, or up on a roof getting my dose of nail-guns and shingles.
I also try to build relationships with our clients and participate in community events because I believe that solidarity, not charity, is the best way to work with others toward a more socially and economically just world.
I'm looking to make this blog a mix of sober, reflective posts concerning the lamentable state of recovery and the outrageously unjust circumstances that the storm revealed, and more entertaining, anecdotal stories about life as a white Illinois native transplanted to the Deep South. Questions, comments, and constructive criticism are welcome--enjoy!
-Leah
My role is to coordinate volunteers who come in from all over the country to spend a week rehabilitating the houses and the lives of those hit hard by Katrina. I do logistics, provide hospitality, and basically try to make their stay here meaningful and profitable both to them and to the under-resourced, underprivileged clients we serve (we typically work with community members whose income falls below 40-60% of the AMI [Area Median Income] or who are homeless). In theory, I facilitate direct service rather than hammering the nails myself; but it often happens that I'm in work clothes, loading tile or carrying sheet rock, or up on a roof getting my dose of nail-guns and shingles.
I also try to build relationships with our clients and participate in community events because I believe that solidarity, not charity, is the best way to work with others toward a more socially and economically just world.
I'm looking to make this blog a mix of sober, reflective posts concerning the lamentable state of recovery and the outrageously unjust circumstances that the storm revealed, and more entertaining, anecdotal stories about life as a white Illinois native transplanted to the Deep South. Questions, comments, and constructive criticism are welcome--enjoy!
-Leah
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