Corinth

So I’m sitting here in the midst of a particularly brutal paper for grad school, and I think back to a short story I once wrote called “Advice for Corinth”. It was something I wrote back in either late 2007 or early 2008 to cope with several things that were going on in my life. I was having a hard time processing the transitions we all go through in life, the growth from one area to another, the passing of time and death. I looked back at different stages of my life that were long gone and essentially dead, and I struggled to comprehend what it meant that I would never be back to relive those things, that those times were lost forever.

The whole thing was written in something of a stream-of-consciousness style, starting with me dreaming and passing fluidly between different memories and stages in my life. The details of each event described come from a place of emotion rather than scientific exactitude...but that doesn’t mean the conversations/occurrences didn’t happen in some form or another. The following is the final memory I recorded, a hospital stay with my grandfather as he’s on his death bed. I appreciate reading things like this, because I dedicated my life to Christ in 2009, and since then I’m not plagued by the same kind of worry that my past is lost forever. Instead, I have come to have an appreciation for my past, but a comfort in know that it belongs behind me. The thing is, after I came to know Christ, I’ve become far more concerned with enjoying every second of the present, and working toward the awesome future He has laid out in front of me. Taking stock of everything, I feel evermore blessed by the way He has completely transformed my life...why would I ever want to turn back?

Excerpt from “Advice for Corinth”:

I blink hard, rubbing my eyes with my left hand as they adjust to the brightness of my new environment. My hand is squeezed again, this time by my grandfather. I’m in January of the year 2007, in Philadelphia, PA, in Hahnemann Hospital, in the Pulmonary ICU, in room 1259.

I’m in a chair situated as close as possible to the bed in the middle of the room—any closer and I’d be on top of it. My hand stretches through one of the wide holes of the railings on the side of the bed, which swing either up or down when the bed is in motion or stationary, respectively. Connected to my outstretched hand is a 92 year old man, my grandfather Vincent Panebianco. His eyes are open, even if slightly forcedly, and he is looking at me as intently as he can possibly muster. I glance up at the clock on the wall; 2:45. I turn my head slightly to the right, directing my gaze out the 12th story window. The usually immaculately white Philadelphia Inquirer building is draped in a happy green curtain, a novelty change of flood lights. The Eagles must still be well on their way to another Super Bowl bid—the second in what? Four years? Somehow, I have my doubts of their chances.

Perched far above the milieu undoubtedly bustling in this inner-city hospital’s ER and waiting room, there is the most distinct sense of peacefulness in the air. The darkness that rolls across the city outside muffles all of the nighttime sounds: of cars, of people, of helicopters, of airplanes swooping down to divulge their contents at Philly International, of trains crisscrossing our great city haphazardly, much like the ribbons of a May Pole. It is because of the darkness that, though the random car can be heard zooming down the Vine St. Expressway just at the foot of the building, they sound distant, detached.

Hannman Hospital

Sitting there in that hospital room with a man who had just recently endured respiratory failure and a subsequent breathing tube removal a few days later, I feel anything but. When my grandfather squeezes my hand a third time, it is as though I am really feeling his touch for the first time, just tonight. Like somehow, all those years I would hug him, kiss him hello and goodbye on the cheek, or help him around in the later years, I was really just handling what I perceived to be a glass doll—someone far too fragile to endure real correspondence, real interaction. After seeing what he endured since he got in the hospital, though, I feel comfortable squeezing his hand right back; firmly, as though he couldn’t possibly comprehend how much I loved him if I told him with words. I am putting all of my love in the palm of my hand, and when I squeeze his back, it diffuses into him and he just knows.

His wrinkled, whiskery tan face twists up into a comforted smile.

“You tired, Pop?” I ask him, looking into his chestnut colored irises surrounded by eyeballs that were not white, but rather yellowing with age, discolored by the many sights those two eyes have beheld in 92 years. The room lay inconceivably silent. The hallways are absent of any doctor discourse or tittering of nurses to and fro. The only sounds that permeate the stillness of the night air are the random smooth zoom of a passing Expressway car, the airy sound made by my grandfather’s breathing, amplified by the oxygen machines he is hooked up to, and the beating of our hearts. The beating of his that I watch and listen for all day and night long, the constant ebb and flow of green mountains on the monitor to the left of the bed. The beating of mine that he listens for in the stillness of the night, once I can no longer endure and have finally surrendered to slumber. The beating that lets each other know that we are still there.

My grandfather nods his head. “Yeah,” he finally manages to offer as a response to my question. His voice, even for a man of his age with emphysema, is raspy and hard to grasp, like the hissing sound of vapors escaping an opened hot water heater pipe.

“I know, Poppy. Do you want to go to sleep? You don’t have to wait up for me,” I hold up the object in the hand he’s not holding, “I brought a book to read this time. See?”

“No…I’m gonna stay awake with my boy,” he whispers hoarsely.

“OK. Is everything alright, then? Are you comfortable? Warm?” I say, issuing a line of questioning that I would repeat many more times, always trying to do what is physically possible to take away from the great amount of pain and discomfort he is already in.

“A little…cold,” he admits, hesitantly. He always hated bothering people. He was self-sufficient and lived alone until he was midway into his 91st year. Getting up from my sedentary post, I grab an extra white cotton blanket from the closet in the far side of the room, returning to drape him in it and tuck him in around the sides. I tuck him all the way in, all the way around his body, shielding him from the harsh coldness that travels the hospital’s nighttime halls, creeping under closed doors, surrounding patients, engulfing them. I do my best to make sure that he always feels an unmitigated warmth.

“How’s that for ya, Pop?”

He nods his head, his face again turning upward into his twisted, contented smile. His eyes are soft and seemingly twinkling as he looks up at me, standing next to his bed. I take my seat once again, taking hold of his hand as well.

“Something on your mind?” I ask.

He waits a second, and again he nods his head.

“Are you…scared?”

Another nod, slower and more deliberate this time.

“I know, Pop. There’s no need though. Look what you’ve been through this past week. I’m not going to lie to you, when we brought you in here last Wednesday, I was terrified. You probably don’t remember, because you were completely unresponsive, but one minute you were with us and,” I stop for a second, trying to hide my emotion. My grandfather understands, a sober expression on his face. “Well, it doesn’t matter. You are with us. It amazes us all how strong you are, Pop. You hear them all, all the doctors and nurses that pull us out the room so you can’t hear them talk about you. They say you’re a miracle case,” I smile broadly, my eyes still wet from the unintended outpour of emotion, “but who didn’t know that, old man?”

He shares my smile, nodding back once again.

“So, you still scared?”

“A little,” he growls in his gruff drawl, his throat still sore from that recently departed breathing tube.

“I don’t blame you,” we sit in silence for a while, him still staring at me intently, me gazing down to where I’m holding tightly onto his hand. “You know what, though? I haven’t a doubt in my mind that everything will be OK, no matter what happens.”

“Me too.”

“Listen to me, talking like I have some authority on the matter,” the smile returns to my face. “We both know that it’s not up to me, or mom, or dad, or Uncle Jimmy, or even that army of ignorant doctors out there. It is between you,” I say poking my pointing finger gently on his chest. “And Him,” raising my finger toward the sky. “No one else.”

He nods again. I can tell that he is beginning to feel more at ease. His breathing is becoming more natural, more relaxed.

“And, Pop,” I say, his calmness rubbing off on me, “whenever it is that you two decide that it’s your time to go, don’t be afraid. You’re not going anywhere. Don’t think of it as dying…think of it as going home.”

“For now,” he finally musters the energy to say, “I’m still staying here with my boy.”

“Well, I’ll be here as long as you are, old man.”

His eyes twinkle as his heavy eyelids begin to slowly drift shut. He is visibly tired—I had witnessed an entire day of him getting prodded, poked, flipped, turned, squeezed, and stuck by a legion of faceless doctors and nurses.

“Go ahead, you rest up, Pop. You‘ve got a lot more to go through before we get you out of here.”

“Alright,” he whispers, his eyes intent on closing and already halfway there. “You just remember what I told you: Chi che…chi che…” He begins to recite an old Italian saying that he taught me when I was a little kid. His grandfather, my great great great grandfather, used to say it at every Easter meal, referring to all those family members who were with them the year before, but had since passed on. I jump in to finish for him what he doesn’t have the energy to say for himself.

“Chi che cambia la strada vecchia per la strada nuova, sa che ha lasciato ma non sa che lui trovera’.” He who changes the old road for the new, knows what he left behind but doesn’t know what he’ll find.
He nods his approval, happy to have imparted some ancient family wisdom upon me.

“You see, Pop,” I say softly, “today wasn’t so bad. You could do for a few more days like this. I know I could.”

My words were left to his subconscious perception, however, because his eyes are closed and he is now fast asleep, snoozing off the turmoil of the day with words of comfort fresh in his mind.

I sit there, watching him sleep for some time until the droll of his amplified, oxygen-supported breathing overcomes me as well. I fall into a solid slumber, my head lolling against the headrest of the chair, my hand still in his.

I lie there awhile, seemingly sinking more and more into the cushioned seat of the reclining chair I’ve accommodated myself on. Soon though, the sounds of my grandfather’s breathing fade away, and I am left only with my own. I stretch out further and further on the reclining chair, so much so that after a while I am completely sprawled out, on my back. Coming out of my dreaming state, I squeeze my fingers tight into my own hand, yet feel nothing in it. I feel a weight building up on top of me, an overpowering warmth returning to my body. I squirm against the two quilts I find myself under. Rolling over once again onto my back, my hands make their way up from under the covers to rub my face. I open my eyes, the faint dawn light is pouring through my curtains. I sit up in bed, removing the blankets. The nighttime cold has since retreated in the hazy sunlight of the morning. I swing my legs out from under the covers and plant them on the floor, looking out the window next to my bed. Cozy beams of sunlight filter in, laying strands of light across the floor.

I make my way over to the window. A more perfect day one could not find. I press my head against the pane, gazing upward into the clear sky through which the sun is making its ascent. “Cherish every day He gives you,” I think to myself. “Let us eat, drink, and be merry; for tomorrow, we die.”

1 Corinthians 15:32

Ex-Pat

I get it now. 

I understand those people who one day just up and move--uprooting themselves and their spouses to look for greener pastures in some tropical, third world locale. I know why they come down here to a place like Uganda, content on passing the rest of their days with this as their be all and end all. England? The U.S.? Der Nederlaands? "Yeah, we go back from time to time. Usually on holidays." I get them--I understand those people.

Everything here is so scary and fascinating for a Westerner. 

No, people aren't all living in huts and painting each others faces. Not where I'm at just south of Kampala, anyway. To be honest, situations like that seem to be the exception rather than the norm from what I've been able to glean from the few residents of the continent that I've spoken with in depth. Yes, there are people living in absolute, dire, what you might call "rural" squalor, but I haven't encountered any yet. What I do see is a place that vaguely resembles a modern day Western civilization--mixed in with definitive qualities of the Old West. There seems to be a fine balance between security and lawlessness, and I get the feeling that no one really knows to expect once they walk out their door. 

It's about a 35-40 minute ride from the airport in Entebbe to where we're staying on the outskirts of capital city Kampala, and it's also a straight shot. The entire way here two nights ago, I was just gaping out the window at a miles-long strip of oddities--to my Western assumption at least. Storefront shacks with their big steel doors propped open, with people just hanging out. Crews of teenagers on motorbikes, crowds of seedy looking gentleman shooting pool on an outdoors billiards table, countless lean-to's doubling as bars equipped with loud reggae and black lights, people walking aimlessly in the no man's lands in between pockets of structures and "establishments". And everything was so dark, as if their society still subsists on candlelight--or at least a handful of flickering, dimming bulbs. 

I sent two text messages last night. One was to my mom, telling here I got here safe and sane (thank God!), and the other was to my dad as I was driving along that road. It read, simply put: "This place is freakin' wild."

No exclamation point, no tongue in cheek, this place is just plain "wild" in every sense of the word. It's rough, crazy, out there, out of control, and even animalistic in some respects. Wild. This place is freaking wild. Untamed. It just feels like, I don't know…like there's any number of things out there that will either kill you or give you serious diarrhea. Wild.

Banana Trees - African Bible University

Lubowa, outside Kampala, Uganda

Yet I do understand why ex-pats flock here. It's beautiful, and it's beauty is positively raw. From the gentle mists that hang amongst the sloping hills in the distance, the exotic birds swooping down low from up high, the smells of wood-burning ovens wafting through the open doors and window panes of red-roofed buildings. Even the dirt is stunning, in its on dirty way. A bright and brilliant reddish color when it is freshly overturned, you almost don't want to brush the dust off of your feet. It makes you feel like you've been somewhere, like you're bearing the evidence that you've walked somewhere important.

Yet they don't call it the dark continent for nothing. There's something deeply mysterious about this place, almost as if there's a collective secret amongst its citizenry. It's an eerie sort of sensation--but it makes you want to dig deeper, to overturn rocks and renew the adventurous spirit you've all but lost. It makes you want to do crazy things. I can understand why earlier European explorers cut through this continent, writing riveting journals and novels like "The Heart of Darkness". I get why years later, their ancestors are returning as ex-pats.

Sustainability - African Bible University

Lubowa, outside Kampala, Uganda

But is it good that they're coming back?

Ex-pat stands for ex-patriot--someone who has all but left behind their home country, nationality, and in some respect, culture, to relocate to somewhere completely foreign and outside themselves, usually somewhere tropical. Germans, French, Dutch, British, Americans, and a host of other white folks.

All jesting aside, I'm not sure how I feel about Africa-bound ex-pats--especially coming from Europe. Marks of the former British colonizers are all over the place here in Lubowa, from the tea breaks at 10:00 am and 4:00 pm, the British electrical outlets, the right-hand drive cars, and the fact that everyone seems to speak English, one of two national languages alongside Swahili. Yet I understand that what's done is done. I usually have a lot of opinions on a variety of different things, but honestly I don't really know what the future should look like here. I know some descendants of colonizers have a vision, and the sons and daughters of those indigenous are starting to form their own vision. But if I'm being honest, it's hard not to look with a raised eyebrow at all the Americans and Europeans coming back to "fix" a place like Uganda. Maybe it's honest restitution for all the sins of their ancestors. Maybe it's a softer form of colonization--forced culture even. What I do know that despite the number of those with ill intentions, there are some real Christian missionaries here who truly want what God wants, and are trying their hardest to do His will.

So that's it--the end of this blog posting. Please forgive me if I am overtly cynical, I guess that God has a lot of work to do with me before I leave Uganda. The hardest things to cope with here haven't been sleeping in a mosquito net (actually pretty comfortable), brushing my teeth with bottled water, or making sure I take my daily anti-malaria pills. It's actually been the war of ideals going on in my head--of knowing where I fit into all of this. Of knowing where I should fit in through all of this.

Maybe I'm being self righteous, but any time I'm in a situation, especially a Christian one, I try my hardest to find the realest around. I know that I can be a tad negative at times, but it's only my knee-jerk reaction to those things I perceive to be not exactly right just under the surface. I don't feel inclined to be phony or fake about things. God receives no glory from my negativity--but fakeness and falsehood are of no value to Him either. Okay, help me down from this soapbox.

That's better.

So I know I usually end my postings with some sort of realization or tying up of loose ends. I don't have a neat little package in which I can wrap things up this time. All I have is a world's worth of new sites, sounds and smells, uncomfortable confusion, shallow mediations, and a deep sinking feeling in my stomach that I hope isn't something I ate...

Chinatown

Oh no, was that a young professional pushing a jogging stroller? Was the kid in that stroller wearing orange Crocs? Excuse me, where did you want to meet up? Brewerytown? Never heard of it. Wait a second, did you see that? Don't tell me that was a thirty-something hipster sipping seasonal Magic Hat at an al fresco tapas bar.

There goes the neighborhood.

There's a farmer's market on Baltimore Ave. in West Philly. There's a pop-up garden in a former vacant lot at 20th and Market. There's a highly sophisticated park that just opened on a refurbished pier under the Ben Franklin Bridge--the Race Street Pier. It's the same one my dad found a dead body floating next to when he was a kid. Charming.

Race Street Pier - Philadelphia, PA

Opened June 2011

I remember the first time someone took me to the Piazza on 2nd Street. It's in an area I would have formerly defined (albeit lazily) as North Philly. My initial reaction was that it was this towering glass complex in the middle of what I had previously written off as urban nothingness--abandoned factories, warehouse, and the like. Truth be told, this was a while back, as their parking complex was still a ruddy dirt lot across Germantown Ave.

Anyway, I had heard ruminations of this place being built, yet I knew nothing of its covert plans to change the surrounding neighborhood into a hipster haven. Either way, I generally enjoyed walking up and down the adjoining strip of still seedy bars and restaurants. Be that as it may, I still remember recalling (rather cynically), "So this is where all the trendy rich folks are going to be moving? Isn't this where that girl got shot? It'll never work."

Juxtaposition of Old and New - The Piazza

2nd Street in Philadelphia

An Oasis in an Urban Desert - The Piazza

2nd Street in Philadephia

Anyway, where was I? Oh that's right, I was ranting. Lower North Philadelphia has lost all but lost its edge! Kensington is on the retreat, being overtaken by the far more chique-sounding monikers of Fishtown and Port Richmond. North Philadelphia on the whole is receding, actually. Names like Brewerytown, Fairmount and Northern Liberties have squeezed themselves onto the map, creating an ever-mounting fault line between Center City and North Philly.

What's even worse, one of my former childhood favorites, the tacky yet classic Spaghetti Warehouse of 1026 Spring Garden Street has finally bit the dust, closing its doors around last Christmas. When I shared this fact with my dad just last night, he was positively jarred: "Really," he said. "Yeah. I'm telling you, it's depressing. The front awning is all ripped and tattered and everything." After that, we shared an unofficial moment of silence.

Trolly Car Dining - The Spaghetti Warehouse

10th and Spring Garden, Philadelphia

The Spaghetti Warehouse in Better Days

10th and Spring Garden, Philadelphia

Listen, I know the food there absolutely sucked, but do you know what being able to eat in a trolly car does to a kid? My dad grew up a block away from this place, and whenever we would visit my grandmother, we would look forward to that occasional treat of what they tried to pass off as spaghetti: egg noodles and ketchup. 

Buon Appetito.

Hey, listen. We didn't know any better, and we liked it that way. And I guess that's what I'm trying to say about this changing face of Philadelphia. Philly and I share a lot of similarities. We're both the middle child, nestled between New York and D.C., always trying to prove ourselves worthy--always trying to gain respect. We've felt neglected and unimportant at times, and it's given us this tough outer shell. We're rough around the edges, but me and my city, we both have a heart of gold. Philadelphia can be somewhat abrasive sometimes, but you know what? That adds to our charm.

So please forgive me if I don't quite know how to react to our city getting...cute. With its locally grown produce in West Philly and its Manayunk Bike Races and its Sofitel Hotel 8th annual Fête de la Musique in what people are now starting to call Philadelphia's "French Quarter" (Rittenhouse, 17th and Sansom). These things are all good. No, they're great. Really. And they're not all instances of gentrification, at least I don't think. After all, West Oak Lane is undergoing something of a cultural Renaissance, with its openings of jazz clubs and hometown eateries/music venues like Relish. That type of development isn't displacing poor residents, right?

...Right?

I'm just scared, okay? A change addict, I love almost all instances of development. This is especially the case in a place like Philadelphia who has, as parts of New York have before us, warped from an early colony, to an industrial and shipping Mecca, to a city in slow decline as the industrial boom ended, to a town rife with boarded up factories and general disarray, to a seedling amidst the rubble, to present day repurposing and widespread development. It's like we're in a new age, really. All around me are signs of Philadelphia on the upswing.

Yet as I walk through a place like Chinatown, with their residents being displaced every day to across Spring Garden by the development of that lumbering giant we know as the Pennsylvania Convention Center, I can't help but feel nostalgic. In a perfect world, I wish that old Philadelphia and this new Philly could coexist harmoniously, that those classic, decades old doorways adorned with Chinese art and architecture wouldn't some day have to surrender to the massive footprint of a future Convention Center parking garage. 

I once heard someone say that all the old, dingy dive bars and quirky restaurants in Manhattan were disappearing, being replaced by more polished, commercialized establishments. The former sleaziness of Times Square has been traded for a Bubba Gumps, Chipotle, Carmine's Italian Eatery, and a Hard Rock Café for cryin' out loud. Is NYC better off now? That's open to debate, but what I do know is that it's recognized around the world as somewhere great, somewhere special.

I'm sorry to see the Spaghetti Warehouse and places/neighborhoods like it go, but maybe it's just part of the sacrifices we have to make to achieve that ever-elusive greatness...

Joy Tsin Lau Restaurant - Chinatown, Philadelphia

The Iconic Arch - 10th and Arch St, Philadelphia

Snap, Break

I'm going to be honest--something happened today that I don't particularly know how to write about.

I don't want this blog to become a place that I run to and only post outlandish stories about the low points of urban ministry. I understand that people like seeing and reading things like that though, even if only subconsciously.

Don't we all love that housewives, basketball wives, mob wives type TV? Shows packed with cast members that are nuttier than an "almond joy"? Shows with producers just off camera making sure that there are fresh glasses of champagne poured so that they can be thrown in each others' faces when the tension reaches critical mass?

Conflict seemingly generates interest.

So why do I continue to write in this blog the most horrible things I come across while working in Camden? Yes, I want people to be interested in what I have to say, but am I being naive if I am hoping that interest comes from a different place? A place of self-reflection, of enlightenment, of empathy, even of inspiration? I guess I really need a space to process what I experience, and I try and stop living life with a subconscious "Would this make a good blog post?" popping in my head. Especially on a day like today.

Colossians 3:17 reminds me that "whatever you do...do it all in the name of the Lord Jesus". I hope this blog achieves that standard, rather than becoming just another (small) part of the larger media that draws people in by reporting violence and misery.

Because today a little boy, a child, absolutely snapped. And since I'm being honest, let me say this: I don't quite know how to write about it without trivializing his deep disturbance or turning his plight into something of a phenomenon... like a war story that I recount and retell to illicit some type of fascination or admiration for what I do.

Trust me, I have "war stories". I've been in some tense moments before... I was about to be "jumped" by a group of teens as I was trying to pull one of my kids off the street and into program. I've been stranded amidst a group of about a half dozen intensely brawling middle schoolers, the sole adult around to break things up. I've had a parent literally lunge over me to deliver several loud, solid corrective blows to her daughter's face. In each of these tense moments, the adrenaline eventually subsided, my guard came down, and the pressure was lifted. And in the wake of each of these scenarios, I was able to laugh things off, even make light of what happened while debriefing with fellow staff. Each of these occurrences are essentially several "it's funny now" kind of moments.

But not today. There's no expiration date on this one. For the first time--in a long time--I was deeply disturbed by what was going on.

- - -

Two. It took two adults to stop this child from busting out of the room and wreaking absolute disarray on the school community. He would walk in furious, even panicked circles, making almost inhuman noises. He wanted to destroy something--perhaps even himself.

And that's what we kept telling him, all the adults surrounding him letting him know that he was loved, cared for, and worth something. "Don't do this," one of us shouted firmly, "stay here with us," another cooed in a soothing voice. Other times we were stern, "You've come too far to mess this up!" In yet another instance, persuasive: "It's me. Look at me--let's talk this out! You always talk things out with me..." And amid his incessant, frenzied circling and guttural grunts, his enraged outbursts and attempts to charge forcibly into the hallway, his half-cocked fists and his at times flailing arms that I was almost certain would connect with one of us sooner or later...there was compassion: "We all care about you. I care about you."

Literally days from graduating, right after he finds out he gets accepted to a prestigious local school, a (relatively) minor infraction was about to cause this boy to lose almost everything he had worked for that school year. We were literally the only thing standing in between this boy leaving with a parent or leaving in handcuffs.

Well, us and a whole lot of prayer. That's one thing I love about working at an inner city school. Folks are often unafraid to act out in their faith. 

"Don't let the devil win, boy."

"Fight that evil, you can do this."

"That's a lie straight out of the pit of hell."

They were speaking the Word to him, and he was beginning to calm down, to slow his hyperventilating caused by an unmitigated rage that his undeveloped mind was unable to process. And I was praying, too. It's almost as if I was face to face with the man from the Garasenes, plagued by legions, cutting his face with stones, attempting to destroy himself with fire. (Luke 8:26-39)

But then finally, in the midst of all this, something happened.

He broke down, sobbing deeply. I'm almost overcome with emotion as I recall this poor kid, once so overtaken with an almost manic fury, finally break and deescalate into this outpouring of intense sadness. He had been passed from household to household, he had been told and made to feel like he wasn't good enough by his family and by his school, and he had grown up in a hostile city with hateful intentions. Finally, he had had enough.

"That's it," one of us said at last, rubbing his back, "It's okay to cry. Let it all out, boy. There's no shame in crying."

- - -

Soon after, the boy's guardian arrived to take him home. The staff and I spoke briefly afterwards, sort of digesting what we had just witnessed. Shortly after that, we were back to our routine, though the atmosphere was far more somber and pensive. It was like that first crisp moment of calm and clarity after a debilitating storm.

Some days I leave work feeling uplifted, like God is saying "This is why you're here." Other days, including today, I leave with a sickening lump in my throat and a heavy burden clinging to my heart. Oddly enough, it's on those days too that I feel like God is saying, "THIS is why you're here." I feel so powerless, so inexperienced, so naive, so weak sometimes. I wonder how I got myself into things, and if I'm really the right one for the job. Be that as it may, it reminds me of something my pastor told me once. She said that the day that I feel like I have everything down pat, that's when I should really be worried. For I know that it's only by God's strength that any change can happen in a place like Camden. And for that reason, I'm thankful that He says, "My power is made perfect in weakness." Now that's something I can say "Amen" to.

Especially after a day like today.

Static

I'm addicted to change. When things stay the same for too long, I get uncomfortable, restless. When I was a kid, I used to move the furniture around in my room all the time, because the thought of keeping the same things in the same places would make my skin crawl. If things were getting too normal in my life, I would act out. I remember one time, during a particularly bland stretch of road in my life's journey, I turned to a friend and said, "I'm going to have to do something crazy and reckless pretty soon. I don't like how things are." Of course that was during a time of rampant self-endangerment, so perhaps the ways in which I would choose to disrupt the status quo weren't exactly the healthiest of measures.

Yet the fact remains the same--I need change. I crave it. Change, to me, represents growth. If things stay the same forever, there's no potential for growth. It's just that simple.

I could never live in a sleepy country town. I could never do a job that required me to do the same mechanical processes over and over again. I couldn't do that job all my life. I couldn't then settle into a retirement community. I don't want to see the same people every day. I don't want to sit on a rocking chair and enjoy the golden years until I quietly bite the dust. In fact, whenever a conversation about death would arise, I would (only semi) jokingly tell people that I wanted to go at 126 years old in a horrible rocket-skiing accident. I figured that they would have invented rocket skis by then.

- - -

The point is I need change, don't you understand? And for this reason, I have a hard time keeping a group of friends, though I recognize it may be unfair to hold people to my standards of dynamicity.

Just last night, I met some old friends at an old hangout. I sat there, evermore thankful to God for delivering me from the past, from a cyclonic cycle I had fallen into that might have prevented me from reaching His purpose for me and satisfying my change addiction. Because as I sat at this bar-restaurant, I looked intently around. In the three years since I'd been there, there was no change. Same bartenders at the outside bar. Same waitresses. Same polo-clad patrons mixed in with prowling cougars and businessmen golfers. Same group of people that I used to work with at a banquet hall down the street showing up after their shift to drink the same drinks, feel the same feelings, only to wake up Saturday morning and start the same process all over again. Even when I stopped by my old work later that evening, it was like stepping into a time capsule. Same people, doing the same things in the same place I left them 2 years ago.

The absolutely egregious sameness of it all makes the hair stand up on the back of my neck. To me, it's literally like sitting there and watching a TV set stuck on loud, blaring static.

Maybe that's why God has placed me in the inner city, working with youth. When I first started my internship at Urban Promise in Camden, can I be honest? I didn't particularly even like kids. I definitely wasn't one of those people who major in elementary or secondary education, hoping one day to fulfill their deepest passion of working with (gasp!) children! ...Not me. As a matter of fact, I scoffed at those people. 

"Suckers."

Well, God works in funny ways. I mean, I still don't really love kids. As a matter of fact, I tell the kids in my program all the time--"I can't stand you damn kids!" They love that, though; makes 'em giggle. 

What I do love about working with kids, though, is that they're never the same. They walk into our door different almost every single day, even sometimes hour to hour. And I think it's because they're still in their "growth period". They're changing, they're growing, they're learning. I like those things. I don't know if you've caught this yet, but the absence of which makes me lose my mind. And I don't know if you know this yet, but we "adults" have worked our way into this oppressive complacency, thinking that there's nothing more that we need to learn, no more growth necessary, and no change needed. I feel as though God feels differently. Anatomically speaking, you keep growing until at some point you stop and then start dying, albeit slowly. And a relationship with Jesus is all about transformation, undergoing constant, unceasing change: of heart, mind, outlook and otherwise. (Romans 12:2)

So whenever I explain to someone what I do and where I work, I fight to surpress an outlandish, self-righteous or even indignant reaction to the same old raised eyebrow and less-than coy remark of "Camden, eh?" 

Yes, I work in Camden, a place that (like these kids) is broken and imperfect, yet has so much potential for growth and change. No, it's not your static suburban existence, with your PTA meetings, soccer games, and Wednesday night tuna noodle casserole. Agreed, that might be all well and good for you, but it's just not for me. 

A place like that is comfortable, and comfort is the methadone to this change addiction that I have.

City in Transition

Philadelphia's Benjamin Franklin Parkway under construction. Circa 1917

Island

How are you reacting to the heat? Are you increasing your intake of fluids? Spending some time in airconditioning? Limiting the amount of physical activity you do during peak hours of the day?

Or like me, are you going absolutely off your rocker? The crazier I get, the less the heat bothers me. I think. I guess.

- - -

An urban heat island is the phenomenon of hotter temperatures occurring in metropolitan areas, as opposed to rural, due to the high amounts of manufactured, heat-retaining materials present in higher concentration. An urban heat island. That's exactly what I feel like at times--I'm trapped on an island, and I'm starting to crack.

Urban Heat Island, Philadelphia, PA

I spent an hour and some change sitting in my one student's living room today. I was waiting with her and her family to meet a woman who would potentially sponsor her efforts to win the Miss Teen New Jersey Confidence Pageant. This isn't exactly part of my job description, by the way--posted up on a hot suede couch for an hour after work is over, hanging out with one of my students, her mom, her little sister, and her little sister's baby. To be honest though, that's some of the most fun I've had in a long time on this stifling island. Sometimes it doesn't take much to make me happy: a partially frozen bottle of water, a sputtering fan in a tiny window, air so thick you could swim in it, bantering like you're one of the family, feeling accepted, everyone being ignorant and goofy for no reason...all the while watching the latest developments and news team coverage on a nearby Camden tire fire--which is so close you can actually see the dark smoke billowing up across the sky, even smelling the toxic plume waft in every time the wind changes.

12 Alarm Fire, Camden, NJ (6/9/11)

So I guess the question really is, why do I stay on this island? Even Tom Hanks had to bail at some point.

I don't know. I guess I really just love these kids. There was a point when the potential sponsor finally arrived and said that she wanted to see my student's talent portion for the pageant. I couldn't even stifle my cheesy grin as I sat there and watched one of my kids recite a poem that I had helped her re-write before our Open Mic poetry show back in February. Every cue, every nuance that we had worked on, she nailed it. This was also the poem that won her first place in her division for last week's talent show. Just the recollection of how far she has come since I've known her is enough to make me mist over like a big sap...

Yet even still, I really hate this job sometimes. So much that it hurts.

But I can't help but really love these kids sometimes. So much...that it hurts. They're always in my face, always invading our office, always prodding, poking, bumping, and bruising. Trying to get any work done with all of them around is like wading through melted marshmallow.

They're really like crazy glue; they just found us one day, stuck to us, and never let go. Or maybe it's us that never let go of them? Either way, one of us is holding on tight.

- - -

So where am I going with all of this? Everyone has read or heard one of those urban ministry stories where someone, usually someone white, mounts up all their bravery and courage and dares to walk and work amongst those horribly oppressed poor people. They work and they slave, and at the end of it all, there is some dramatic turnaround, some story that's both heart-wrenching and redeeming that just puts wind in our sails and lets us know that everything is gonna be just hunky-dory.

This isn't one of those stories. 

I don't have the strength or desire to tell one of those poor-little-hood-kid stories. What I am willing to tell you, though, is about my family...

I'll tell you about some bad --- kids with hearts of gold and no need for anyone to feel bad for them. We battle, we fight, we yell, we shove, we...love each other to death. Some are pregnant, some are in gangs, some have STDs, some are failing out of school, some...are the future leaders of this next generation. I can tell you for a fact, though, none of them need your sympathy. What most of them do need, actually, is a swift kick in the back pocket. The Bible says in Proverbs 23, and I quote, "Don't fail to discipline your child. They won't die if you spank them." So, who am I to argue with Scripture? 

That's really the beauty of my program: if you don't get enough love at home, we'll love you to pieces. And if you don't get whooped at home, we have a fresh one warming up for you. Just stop by our office.  

- - -

Though I kid, it is truly an insanely potent mixture of emotions that are currently swirling around this island I'm on, especially as I prepare for our last day of programming of the school year tomorrow. Everything and everyone is crazy in my life, and it's hard to hold on what is true, and right, and good. So much so, that this blog post has devolved into something like stream-of-consciousness, writing exactly what I feel as I am trying to make sense of all the thoughts, emotions, and reflections I have regarding this past year of my life in Camden. The journey is no where near over, but I still (for whatever reason) have found myself grasping skyward to see if I can find and take hold of a solid rock to which I can cling.

And as I scroll through what I've written, I guess the best way to sum up all that I have said is to simply say this: 

It's hot out here, and we love these kids like crazy.

Unlovable

You know, I'm a firm believer in the notion that everything happens for a reason. I've been sitting on this title, this concept for the past couple of days now...

Unlovable. That's not exactly a word that you hear every day; it's a word with some depth to it. Though it doesn't seem entirely awful at first, when you consider what it takes to not only be unloved--but unlovable... That really means something. This word first came to me during a late night coffeehouse service at Greater Exodus Baptist Church, right there off of Broad and Ridge in North Philly.

Greater Exodus Baptist Church, Broad and Ridge, Philadelphia, PA

After some awesome songs, the likes of which I haven't exactly heard from a Young Adult Ministry, there was a speaker to wrap the night up. Now, allow me to confess: if I'm not in the mood to be preached to, at, or whatever preposition you want to use, I simply tune out. Seriously, I go to another place almost, lost in thought. Yet what I did pick up on was a reference to Romans 5, as well as a challenge. I don't remember what the minister's exact wording was, but what I took away from it was something like "Have you ever known anyone who was absolutely unlovable?" Like, no matter how hard you try, there's just something that this person does, or even something about who they are that just seems to prevent you from loving them, try as you might?

- - -

His name is three fights in two days. Some call him constant disrespect. He also goes by the name of loud mouthed, dim witted, short tempered, whiny, hard headed, and foul mouthed. But this student, this 16 year old freshman who has been in our program since the beginning, causing problems since his arrival, is he "unlovable"? We've all had our moments with this child. My two program assistants, our hip hop dance instructors, our security designee and my part time group leader. His voice has a pitch to it that makes your skin crawl. There's no talking to him; everything devolves into a lecture amidst his shifts and groans, his eye rolling, teeth sucking, and hardly muffled cursing and indignation. The school has handed out suspensions to this child on a bi-weekly basis. Seriously, 10 days here, 5 days there. Every time he was suspended, you knew it was time for another pay check. It was sadly consistent, and it was always over nonsense.

And oh the fights he's started. Literally, one this past Friday, and two today. Not to mention the countless altercations his viciously whiny, ever flapping mouth has caused throughout the school year. 

"He has no hands," my program assistant has said, no ability to fight--we all know that. His threats to "hook off", "swing", call his cousins or uncles will never amount to anything. He's the type of kid that's all bark, no bite, the kind that teachers, security guards, and even my staff has whispered about amongst ourselves many a time, saying "What he really needs is to get his --- whipped, that'd fix him real quick." Honestly, it's my surprise that no one, neither student nor staff, has made a concerted effort to "fix" him, as they say.

This kid, this spark in a tinderbox, can be just about unlovable some days. He's the common denominator in some of our most heated run-ins...but he's still a kid.

One thing that often replays in my head when it comes to students like him is the fact that we can and do put up with a lot in my programming. In a city devoid of alternative schools or education, our school is one of two of Camden's "last stops". We are one of the two public high schools in the city: if you can't make it with us, your options are all but exhausted. Take your pick between the streets, the penitentiary...or worse. And within this "last stop" of a school, a place that I've literally heard its very own teachers call "Camden's dumping ground", our program's tolerance for delinquents, outsiders and downright hoodlums is about the closest thing the school has to a safety net for some kids. 

I have made a point to accept almost anyone--I have fought to enroll and keep active gang members, over aged freeloaders, and kids within the school that no sane program coordinator would touch due to behavioral issues. My staff has always backed me 100% of the way, and 9 times out of 10, these marginalized troublemakers excel with us. We understand them, somehow, as all of us were delinquents ourselves when we were growing up. Even still, all of these "hoodlums" prove to be undeniably lovable, once you strip away that hard exterior rife with scars and pain.

So many kids we've accepted, so many times we have said yes when others would have said absolutely NOT. Yet today, everyone was fed up. This particular student had crossed them for the last time--his disrespect was too great. They wanted him out. To be completely honest...so did I. I forgot about his few redeeming qualities, the good times we've shared, his development as an adolescent in an unforgiving city. Even still, something told me to keep fighting for him, to give him his thousandth chance, to continue to work with him even though his words and actions have been cancerous to our programming. I heard them out, my demeanor always the same furrowed, deeply thoughtful expression. My heart was heavy, telling me to cut my losses. Nonetheless, I could not block out the logic that if we bar him--as would any program have done months ago--he would just end up in the streets. After all, I've seen him tend toward those shady park hangouts before. That's where it starts.

Either way, our deliberating was finally over. I sat him down and told him the corrective action plan I had decided, basically letting him know that he was on probation. He would be able to come back tomorrow, contingent on his continued good behavior. At first sign of disrespect or acting out, he would be sent home early each day of the offense. It's a decent system, and I've seen it work absolute wonders with changing around another former problem student.

...Yet my heart is still heavy over this, and I have no idea whether I have made the right decision. After checking to make sure I hadn't offended my staff by allowing him to stay, my one program assistant reassured me that she still stood behind me 100%, saying that I had definitely made "the Christian decision." The thing is, I don't know exactly what I've done. I know that mercy--even forgiveness or compassion--was shown, but did I do what Christ would have done? Am I hurting my staff and other students by continuing to let him participate?

- - - 

It is times like this that I thank God for His divine coincidences. Part of that passage I barely heard Friday night, Romans 5, says: "Christ died for the ungodly. ⁷Very rarely will anyone die for a righteous person, though for a good person someone might possibly dare to die. ⁸ But God demonstrates his own love for us in this: While we were still sinners, Christ died for us."(v. 6a - 8)

So even though we might have been completely broken, horrid, unrighteous and unlovable, Christ still loved us enough to die and save us from the eternal death of sin. Be that as it may, I really don't know how I rank up to Jesus on my quest to be Christ-like. However, I do know one thing:

I hate kicking kids out of program, and will avoid it at almost any cost.