Life in a small town.

I had Friday off, and it was, in a word, fabulous. I went to the gym and had left-over Mexican food for lunch. I did my homework and watched Full House with Jane. We had the best conversations and wasted the afternoon away with no agendas. We talked about crushes (hers) and families and blessings and accomplishments. When Evan arrived at my house after work, he was surprised to find hyper-prepared me unshowered and unpacked. He didn't complain, though, because he's Evan.

We went to eat Friday night at our (my) favorite hometown eatery: Mama's. And we ate our (my) favorite pizza: pineapple with extra marinara. And we laughed and talked with Evan's wonderful family and all the familiar faces passing through the restaurant. After dinner, I pretended to be Jane in order to rent a movie on the Harvey account (from which Thomas and Evan are banned, apparently), and I had the distinct pleasure of introducing Thomas and John to a classic movie (and one of my favorites): Billy Madison.

Saturday, my dad and I had breakfast at, of course, Mama's. The chocolate chip pancakes and western omelette that we split between the two of us were pure perfection (read: TRY THEM), and we left so full that I almost bailed on our golf game. But I didn't. And I played terribly. But I loved it because it's golf and it's what we do, Daddy and I. I can remember being on the golf course with Dad, probably on four years old, and loving whipping through woodsy golf trails on the golf cart and playing with my sawed off, tape-handled golf club.

After golf, we met Mom for lunch at another downtown eatery where we saw many more familiar faces. That's the thing about small towns; it's like the song from Cheers, "You wanna be where everybody knows your name, and they're always glad you came...." Seriously. Eating a meal in public with my dad is like eating with the mayor. You leave the restaurant, full and satisfied, feeling like people know you and care about you. That's a feeling you don't find in a big city where people seem isolated and self-involved.

We spent Saturday afternoon at Evan's house shooting the breeze with his parents. That's the thing about Evan's house; there's always conversation. Saturday afternoon, I laid on a work out bench (Thomas's old room has been transformed into a semi-workout room but still houses a bed so Evan will have a place to sleep now that Thomas has taken his room) and Evan laid on a daybed while we gathered in the "workout" room for an hour-long talk that materialized out of a comment about Trivial Pursuit.

Later, feeling "game-y," we headed back to my house and convinced my mom to play Monopoly with us. She won, of course, but not until we finished the game on Sunday afternoon. I put up a valiant fight, by the way. We ate dinner at Granny's house, and it was wonderful as always. I also suffered through what has to be my thousandth Braves game on Granny's big screen, but it was worth it in exchange for time with family and food made by Granny's able hands.

Sunday, Mom and I started planning our trip to Walt Disney World. All I can really say about that is how very, very excited I am. I love love love Disney World and Peter Pan's Flight and Snow White's Scary Adventure and monorails and national pavilions and Disney characters wandering around me. Later, I cooked dinner for Evan's family and it was successful (that is, not burnt or ruined or inedible).

Today I'm going to organize my life. I should do that now.

Vicky's Story

Yesterday I was blessed to stumble into the middle of a class here on my internship site's campus. I was running an errand, but left the building with so much more than I came for.

Vicky, an inspirational speaker brought in to speak to a group of unemployed women (many of whom are single mothers and victims of abusive relationships), saw her mother murdered by her father when she was 15 years old, had a baby when she was 16 years old, and lived in an abusive marriage for eight and a half years. Along the way, though, she managed to finish high school and get a college degree. She now does counseling at a domestic violence center here in town. Most remarkable about Vicky, though, is her perspective on life. I have never met someone in person that has had it quite as bad as Vicky; similarly, I have never met someone so willing to give glory to God. With every breath, Vicky praised God for everyday of her life, for his mercies, and for his blessings. She is someone with every reason to be bitter and discontent, but she lives her life with joy. I can't stress this enough: joy. Think about that as something completely separate from happiness. She glows, she can't help but smile, and she's contagious.

I was so inspired by her, and I only walked in on the last ten minutes of her spill. My greatest hope is that the women in the class were moved, that some form of hope was stirred deep within them. I didn't know what it was like to have issues until I worked here. 'I have too much homework,' or 'I can't find someone to go to dinner with me'... those are my issues. This population, though, are struggling to feed themselves and their families. They are uneducated not by choice but by circumstance.

I don't know how you walk away from a service profession like this, exposed to so much hurt and need in the community around you, not aching to start a revolution.

Mending Bridges

Last night we taught at the Salvation Army to a group of veterans living there. I didn't realize just how stressed I was about it until we were about to walk in the door of the classroom (read: cafeteria).

I drove myself to the Salvation Army, an adventure in itself as I'm new to this town, around 6:00. I had no idea how serious Salvation Armies are, and I suppose it's because when I think of the Salvation Army my mind conjures up images of the store front windows of the SA in my small hometown where consignment clothes and other things are sold. The shelter, however, is a completely different concept. Upon entering the building, one goes through a metal detector the likes of which you see in an airport. Then you sign in at the front desk, and the receptionist unlocks the first door to lead you into a corridor. After a series of locked doors, one finally arrives in the heart of the shelter. Before you know it, you're in the midst of homeless veterans, yelling up and down the hallway at one another and shuffling past you, the obvious intruder. All this was, of course, a bit jarring to me, but my supervisors seemed undeterred and walked into the cafeteria/classroom with ease. I followed, afraid to make eye contact with the motley crue of veterans that were required to be with us.

It's important that you know that these classes, for the veterans at least, are mandatory. And a few of them are quick to let us know that they did not choose to be there but are required. One, in fact, continually complained about the length of the class (which, in reality and with a positive attitude, the 2 hours flies by) and chose not to participate at all. He refused to sign any consent forms or complete the pre-class survey. He went so far as to offer our free pen back to us, but we told him to keep it. For the rest of the class, he sat back with a sour grimace on his face and his arms folded decidedly across his chest, interrupting once or twice to remind us he wanted out early.

Aside from our one "bad apple," it was really encouraging to interact with the other veterans. The men who had at first seemed a bit frightening to me quickly became men with stories and complicated pasts. One man shared about his seven children--the obvious highlight of his lifetime, his struggle with drugs and alcohol, and his time in the armed forces. Another man told of his honorable discharge from the navy and his desire to go to school, graduate with honors, and eventually be an executive chef. The youngest man in the class talked briefly about his plans to write a novel. It was really uplifting to see these men receptive to our cause, searching for empowerment and someone to believe in them.

For the most part, I was merely an observer, but I hope to become more active in the classes and play some sort of role in the achievement of these down-and-out veterans' goals.

Sorry, Alice.

As Alice reminded me, I haven't blogged in far too long. I'm sitting at "work" (internship) right now; my supervisors are out to work, and I've finished everything they left me to do... so here I am. Back to the blog.

Internship is like a transition into the real world; not quite adult, only partly student. I've been here a week, and it's already a bit of a rollercoaster. Some days I think, "Man, I've really found my calling." And other days I wonder if it's not too late to start over in another field.

I'm interning at a family resource center. We have GED classes, English as a Second Language classes, classes for dads having a hard time paying child support, classes for unemployed men and women referred by DHR, classes for single parents, etc. Needless to say, I'm working with a very very diverse population of people. The majority are low-income or unemployed African American women, but a slew of white women come through as well. A lot of them come from Hannah Home, a shelter for women who have found themselves victims of domestic violence. Sometimes it's really exciting to see them picking up the pieces of their shattered lives, but a lot of times it's particularly devastating.

For as long as I can remember, all my needs have been met. I have never hungered or wanted for anything and, for that matter, I have never had extensive contact with people in these circumstances. When I worked at a pharmacy in high school, I would have brief conversations with and the occasional delivery to the "projects" but that's the extent of it. So I'm here in the midst of the poor Tuscaloosa, uneducated Tuscaloosa, unloved Tuscaloosa.

And I'm terrified. Really, really terrified. My stomach knots up when I think about it. So far I've basically trained and observed, but at some point I'll be teaching classes. Me. Priviliged me, teaching a group of people that I have little to nothing in common with. I'll stand before them, completely non-credible for anything I'll be teaching save the lesson plan in front of me, and teach them skills that I myself have never needed to use. And they're supposed to take my word for it. They're supposed to change the way they've been living their lives because I read a few guidelines off a sheet of paper.

I pray that I can reach them someway or another. I pray that they not laugh me out of the room. I pray that I provide them with the smile that so many people don't "waste" on them.

I'm going to try and be more consistent with my blogging now. I'd really like to keep a track of my internship and new life here outside of the bogus reflection papers I turn in to my professor.