The Grown Up Christmas List

Publish Post

Okay, so I've never had conventional Christmas lists.

One year as a kid I just asked Santa for a really really big box. Fortunately, my obliging father sought me out a refrigerator box which over the next week became a fort, a school bus and a house with windows cut out until I left it on the lawn overnight and it turned to mush.

But I do remember becoming exceedingly excited as a child wandering down the hall Christmas morning to discover that Santa had, indeed, come and had brought me treasures. When I asked how he got them into our house with no fireplace, I was told he used the sliding glass doors, of course. At 5 it was a Scooter with fat, white tires that my parents had refurbished and painted blue and pink. A couple of years later it was a Wishbone stuffed animal dressed as Robin Hood.
Who else saw the YouTube medly of children freaking out, crying, hyperventilating (and one even vomited) from excitement at unwrapping a Christmas gift? If only we were still so easy to please.

The truth is, though, that as people age, their priorities shift-- thank goodness-- and the things we want most in life can't be wrapped or fit into a stocking: Good health for ourselves and our families, less stress at work or school, a better love life. A friend joked on Facebook a few weeks ago that her 7 year old self would be horrified that her 23 year old self was asking for an eye exam and teeth cleaning for Christmas; I'm pretty sure all my mom really wants for the holidays is a nap.

But we make Christmas lists anyway, probably more out of tradition than anything. Mine this year was labeled "Ariel's list of suggestions for the prevention of holiday-related parental stress" and while it did contain several items I was confident would not be taken entirely seriously (headscratches, hot Latin boyfriend), the requests have become more practical (a tank of gas, cherry rooibos tea). In a couple of hours (I may be the first one awake this Christmas, but I intend to let my parents sleep in the year and I am not going to sneak out to the tree to shake and poke all the presents) my parents and I will probably exchange gourmet coffee and microbrew, and a few other tidbits. My Dad wanted an extra long man-sized yoga mat, my mom a magazine subscription. The truth is, though, that one of the things we all want is less stuff. Less to store, less to trip over while probably not using it anyway, less to move next time my nomadic life relocates me, less to waste our time and money on.

Because when it comes down to it, for me, Christmas isn't about what's stuffed in my stocking. Christmas is about the smell of Fraser fir, getting together with long-time friends for Southern dinner and Dirty Santa gift swaps, making Fairy Gingerbread with my grandfather, walking the lights on Verbena, the photo of the family in front of our broom-stick tree, Portuguese Kale Soup (a New England comfort food if I ever heard of one) and listening to the Polar Express before bed. Christmas is about people. It's about the ones you love and spending time with them enjoying tradition and sharing the holiday spirit.

...and hopefully headscratches and a hot Latin boyfriend.

The Quest for Adventure

For when Skpe's just not enough.

While my friends are spread across the world in law school, medical school, graduate school, Americorps and the Peace Corps, I'm back in my hometown, living with my family once again. While my family will always come first in my life, a girl's gotta live a little. Despite modest elder care and budget constraints, my parents and I have made it a mission to get out and have mini-adventures, no matter how small, to avoid staying cooped up in the house, especially as the winter months approach.

That's the awesome thing about Florida, you can still be outside for late into the fall. My dad's been crewing for a friend's friend in local bi-weekly sailboat races all season and having a blast. It's informal and no one takes it too seriously, which makes it all the better-- it's just to keep the weekend warriors out on the water. Occasionally, he takes a family friend or me with him basically just as balance/ballast and we admire the dolphins in the river at sunset. I've also been making a point to appreciate the beach now that I'm living 2 blocks away again, going for walks at low tide when my schedule permits. I've also rediscovered my roller blades I found hiding in the back of my closet.

After being in the habit(/rut) of hitting up Cantina's El Cheapo Mondays every week, my mom and I made a list of new restaurants we want to try instead. We also noted a couple of new shaved iced and frozen yogurt shops that have opened in town. It's a nice treat to get my Grandpa out of the house. Even if it's just for something small like an ice cream cone, it might be his great adventure of the day. He's pretty frugal, but you can almost always lure him into doing what you want if you say you'll split a dinner with him. That's how we ended up having an excellent lunch on the DaKine patio last week. I've also been stopping by the Flying Corkscrew once a week to pick up a fisherman's six-pack and my dad, grandpa and I sit by the fire pit on the patio after dinner and do a gourmet beer tasting.

Last week I convinced Grandpa to come to the pumpkin patch and help me pick out a pumpkin. We ended up getting a couple of pumpkins and making jack-o-lanterns together. It turns out he's really skilled pumpkin carver and he proudly displayed his jack-o-lantern Sunday night for the trick-o-treaters (and dressed up to give out candy, too).

...and then sometimes you've just got to get the hell out of Dodge. So last Thursday I just took myself on over to St. Pete and had an awesome weekend with Tara & Crystal, Caitlin, Todd and Christina, full of football, costume parties, museums, drag shows and The Pier. Good way to spend Halloween.

In between teaching myself cell respiration, trying to keep my family fed, keeping a constant stream of books into the house across the street, chem tests and trying to track down Grandpa Fred's hearing aids, I do pretty well for myself. Next up: Harry Potter World. Can't wait!

PS Adventure suggestions welcome!

The Reunion

A few weeks ago, we knew my grandfather was dying. So what did we do? Throw a party, naturally.

My grandfather was diagnosed with Parkinson's a few years ago and declined slowly but steadily until this fall. He could still get around, eat, sit in his chair and read the Clarion-Ledger, etc. until mid-September when he had a stroke or something similar and from then on was pretty much on his way out. My mom flew up from Florida and my uncle and grandmother (they've been divorced but friendly for 40+ years) came down from Memphis and they spent a month in Jackson helping my aunt care for him. The fact that they were able to do so and keep him in his own home was quite a blessing.

And there's nothing my grandfather loved more than a full house. He wasn't particularly gregarious or a party animal, but he just liked to have everyone there and to sit back and admire the family he'd built. His house was long the gathering-house for family parties, long, lazy weekend brunches and holiday festivities so, when the kids could see that he didn't have much longer, they called everyone, rallied the troops and asked everyone to come on over. We gather every year for Christmas anyway, so they just asked everyone to move up the plans and get together in October instead. My Dad and I flew up, people came down from Memphis, Vicksberg and Cordova, and stopped by from all over town. We cooked up a big old lunch, had probably 30 people over, and sat around visiting, and sat him in the wheelchair on the porch so he could see the little kids swinging and running around in the yard.

He was easily tired, so he spent the majority of his days in bed, but we took turns sitting with him as he called us in by twos and threes and talked with him. I think he made a lot of peace that day, and said to people what he felt he needed to in order to let go.

Sometimes he was coherent and sometimes he wasn't; sometimes he could feed himself and sometimes he couldn't turn over in bed. It was hard to see him in such discomfort, but I'll always be glad we all had that weekend together. Even while he was asleep, the family all sat around laughing, telling funny stories about his younger days and crying, watching old DVD slide shows.

We all left on Sunday (save for the kids) to go back to work, school, etc. in our hometowns and he was in the hands of hospice care by that night, in a coma by Tuesday and gone Wednesday. Whether it's a miracle that we all spent time with him in the nick of time or he felt able to let ago having tied up his loose ends I won't ever know. One thing that I do know, though, is that hospice was a Godsend during the whole ordeal. They provided medical support for him and instructions, preparation and emotional support for the family that proved invaluable. He was assigned an RN to oversee medical care, a CNA for coming every day to give him a bath, comb his hair, change his sheets, etc., a social worker to help the family with the paperwork, etc. and a chaplain for his counseling and for that of my mom and her siblings. The family could call any of them at any hour with questions and they were all very friendly. And, best of all, it was all 100% covered by Medicare. A lot of the family members chose to make a memorial donation out of gratitude, as do many families, but all of that is used to help those families whose care isn't covered and who can't make their payments in an effort to provide palliative care to all who need it regardless of financial circumstances.

Anyway, he wanted to be buried in his hometown of Bruce, MS about 2.5 hours into the sticks from Jackson, so everyone trekked on up there the next weekend. This was my first actual funeral as I've always just been to memorial services before. He didn't want any frills and made that explicitly clear to the family, but I was humbled and overwhelmed to see all the flowers that had been sent by friends and community members anyway. We were called a "unique" family a couple of times by the funeral's attendees because my grandfather had asked my grandmother and her husband both to speak at the funeral. But that's something I think isn't inappropriate, but makes my family special and awesome.

I'm pleased that he lived to see one last family reunion and, more than that, he got to experience the love of 3 devoted children, see two grandchildren get married and four go to college and get to know 3 great-grandchildren, one of which was named for him. Not a bad life, eh?

The Thing About Banjos

is that they're just so gosh-darn magical to me. I don't know what it is, but very little impresses me more than a band that can incorporate some bad-ass banjos runs really well.

I've been feeling particularly musically disenchanted and uninspired since The Duhks' January announcement that Tania was stepping out on her own and the group stopped touring and all but went AWOL. This time of year, as the weather changes, it's been particularly hard for me as it's just about this time last year that my folks and I were at MagFest having the time of our lives camping, feasting on gourmet vegan french toast and home brew and watching the Duhks perform all weekend.

...and then I picked up a Rolling Stone in the Jackson airport a few weeks ago. The feature story was an interview with Obama on how far we've come this term, after all (which I was under strict instructions to hide for the duration of our time in Mississippi). While I was flipping through the pages on the airplane I dog-eared all of the pages that had blurbs about artists I thought I'd be interested in and I made a mental note to look them up when I got home. And lo and behold, I actually did. As soon as I played the first 30-second clip of Mumford and Sons (their Rolling Stones description was four 20-something guys playing Brit-folk with amazing banjo, how could I resist?) on iTunes, I knew I wanted the whole album. The next morning my classes seemed to drag on for days and I counted down the moments of my chemistry lecture until I could burst free and take myself on over to Melbourne and buy the CD. I don't think I've been so excited in a long time as I was after popping in into the CD player in my car on the way home.

If you like folk, seriously, check it out. These guys are good. Slightly-deep (but not obnoxiously so), London-inspired acoustic tracks David Gray-style with banjo, strong bass drum and 3 to 4-part man-harmonies a la Greenland is Melting. I imagine fans of the Once soundtrack being big fans of this.

okay done gushing. just watch this video (this is their most popular song, but there are others equally as good on the Sigh No More alum) WARNING. They use the f-word. Don't play it around small children or those of delicate sensibilities.

The Down-home Factor

As far as I'm concerned, the ages of 16 to 26 (or maybe longer, who am I to put a cap on creativity?) are about just figuring things out. Figuring out what you want to do for a career and what you definitely have no interest in, what you want in a partner and what you simply will not put up with, what you value in life and friendships, where you want to live, how you want to live and everything in between.

The past few years I've been a bit of a nomad, I'll admit, but I've been a conscious nomad, and each place I've lived, I've made a note of all the amazing things that place had to offer. I've done northern hemisphere, I've done southern hemisphere, I've done eastern hemisphere, I've done western hemisphere, I've done tropical and temperate, I've done urban and suburban/nearly rural, I've done New England and the Deep South, dorms, houses, townhouses, apartments and volunteer housing. And one thing I've learned through it all is that I have got be somewhere with soul.

Discussing this with my dear roommates in Boston really has made me think about it a lot. What is it that makes a place appealing to me? The local flavor-- what I like to call "the down-home factor." Where ever I do actually settle, it's got to have personality; I don't want to live in the financial district of anywhere, I don't care house nice the property or safe the neighborhood.

That's one thing that dear Satellite Beach is big on. Okay, so they call the Melbourne area "Mel-boring" for a reason, but, while the Beachside might not have much, it does have soul. If you walk to the beach at dawn, the boardwalk is lined with locals sipping coffee and watching the sunrise. A lot of times when I walk on the beach, I'll take a grocery bag and just fill it with trash as I go and, you know what? I see other people doing the same thing. Just because. Because our little town in so beach-centric that people want to take care of it. Our local news station gives a surfcast with the weather report in the mornings. Funerals as often as not include a dawn paddle-out. At 7:30 on a Sunday morning, half the neighborhood is out riding their bikes shirtless (and aren't considered white trash for it), the early-30s guy with dreads from down the street is probably longboard(skateboard)ing down to the beach with his dread-headed 3-year-old riding on the front of the board giggling, and people will say "Good morning" and wave not because they know you but just because you're a neighbor and that's a good enough reason for them. Hyte the bagel shop owner knows everything and everyone in town and is considered the population's collective judge of character. Elva, who owns the paperback store, remembers every book that anyone in town has read in the past 15 years. The churches along A1A have signs out by the road that read, "Surfers welcome!" Someone's considered dressed up if they've got clean khaki shorts and an ironed Hawaiian shirt on but chances are that the person behind you at the cash register is barefoot and wearing baggies. Where else can you eat a burrito and a pineapple soda on the deck of a put-put-golf hut turned tropical paradise? And let alone not be able to do so without seeing someone you know because DaKine's always seems like the place to be.

The sinkholes, 'noles gear year-round, not just during football season, The Palace, Spanish moss, the local music scene, Canopy Road, the Park Street farmer's market, SoulVeg, Lake Ella and, of course, El Tap all gave Tallahassee some down-home points, as well. I've even heard people from out of town talking about The Strip.

So, as much as I'll complain that the Bamboo Theater isn't playing every Tuesday & Sunday anymore, the bowling alley was hurricaned and the 5th Ave shaved ice, Java Surf, totally sold out becoming a real cafe, Beachside certainly isn't the worst place to be. At least it takes pride in what it's got. And, if all else fails, at least I'm only 2 blocks from the beach.

The Boyfriend Test

It supposedly works for girlfriends, too.

When the interns first arrived at Haley House in May, one of the community members joked that before we could date anyone, we had to bring them by to work a shift in the kitchen as a test. Of course he wasn't serious but one of the girls in the house whose boyfriend also lives here and works as a member of community said that, in all seriousness, it is a really good test of character-- obviously it had worked for them.

The more I think about it, the better an idea I think it actually is. Each person living and working at Haley House is really invested in the cause and it's a big part of each of our lives, so it makes sense that we'd want a potential significant other to get a glimpse into our world and come to understand what Haley House is all about. Furthermore, soup kitchen shifts are probably a pretty good display of what people are made of. Someone who's willing to come in and work a shift and makes it through in one piece (or, dare we hope, even likes it) obviously values service, is personable, is willing to step outside their comfort zone, finds the best in people, demonstrates creativity and, best of all, doesn't take themself too seriously.

We've had one boyfriend come volunteer here so far, and a couple of just friends or family members who have been visiting from out of town. You learn a lot about yourself working in the soup kitchen and I think a few people have been pleasantly surprised by what they've found they're capable of. Mum & Dad are going to be working a shift while they're visiting next week and I can't wait to show them off :o)

The Slow Realization

You can only get so far on idealism and good intentions.

From the age of about 11, I've known that I would dedicate my career to a life of service. When I was younger, I dreamed of being a Diplomat or joining the Peace Corps after college. As I got older, obviously my priorities changed and, as I became more involved with community service through Florida State, my path began to lead me toward the field of nonprofit administration because I knew that I wanted to work directly with people solving problems of everyday life. However, something I've come to realize is that I don't need to pursue nonprofit administration to be in the nonprofit world and to make a difference. In fact, it would probably be better not to approach it from that angle. The women in the Haley House office come from a variety of backgrounds, none of which are administration; one is an accountant, one has a strong background in research, another divinity school. The common thread: each has a definite skill or specific knowledge base.

Sometimes we get volunteers in the soup kitchen who are really eager to serve the community and are enthusiastic about helping out but are next to useless in the kitchen and get in the way more than they actually help. Occasionally, I too am like the guy who cannot for the life of him figure out how to slice a watermelon. I feel right now that, as much as I really really want to, I'm not able to offer as much as my potential would allow because everything I learned in school is too patchy or esoteric to actually help with anything. I'm starting to understand that I can be of much more use to society with some sort of actual practical skill.

When I was 17 and attended FSU orientation, they asked us each to pick a major. I knew I wanted to study abroad and was interested in taking history classes, so I picked international affairs. What I didn't realize at the time was that putting all my eggs in one international basket was completely unnecessary; Florida State has advertising internships in London, nursing internships in Panama, hospitality administration classes in Australia and a Chemical Engineering summer program in Scotland. I could have chosen any course of study and spent a semester abroad. When advisers say to "follow your interests," do so in a way that actually makes you good at something. If you're interested in living abroad, study accounting and work for a bank with trans-continental branches, study advertising and work for an NGO; if you really like travel, get your Green MBA and work in the hospitality industry; work for Disney by developing IT skills or learning another language.

This is a large part of what has led me back to my 16-year-old life plan that I was once talked out of: nursing. I've decided to come back to Florida and, starting in January, I'll be taking the prerequisites I need to apply to nursing school. By deciding to pursue nursing, I'm not settling because I don't think I'm smart enough to get into medical school; I'm not selling out just so I can get a job that actually pays; I'm not giving up on Boston because I couldn't get a job (I did actually get an offer which I turned down for this). I'm finally going to pursue something I'm actually interested in, do something for myself. Most importantly of all, however, is that I'm making myself better equipped to more effectively serve others in the future.

The Trans Question

Haley House has always been the soup kitchen equivalent of a tree house with a "NO GIRLS ALLOWED" sign... and then DiamonD, Victor and Chichi came and it all went to hell in a designer handbag.

Over the years, Kathe and John have had to make some tough calls about Haley House's operations and, as times are changing, the dilemmas are getting tougher; they are now being asked to define manhood. We have had a few guests who, while biologically male, identify, dress and live as women (As far as I know, there have never been any cases of F to M transgendered or transsexual individuals seeking hospitality at Haley House). They come in, sometimes with their boyfriends, sometimes by themselves, and eat without causing any real problems among the other men, and are treated much like any of the other guests (with the exception of one of them who is now barred for inappropriate advances toward one of the live-in staff members)

None of them are regular attendees of the morning breakfast, but the discussion was resurrected recently when Chichi came in. In a forward-thinking, left-leaning society that encourages addressing trans people by whichever means they choose to identify themselves, can we really justify admitting anyone we're discussing as "she" into our all-men's soup kitchen. On principle, no-- not if she identifies as female. Realistically, however, we decided that if there's any way we can justify offering people hospitality, if someone is in any way, shape, form or part male, we should make ourselves available to them. This is especially the case as we are unsure of the other services available in the area to transpeople. For instance, are they allowed to eat or shower at Rosie's place, the all-women's resource center? As far as we know, there is only one shelter in town equipped with a policy for accommodating the trans homeless population, so if the need is there, we want to be able to fill it until we have a reason not to.

I suppose I'm a little surprised that there isn't a strictly LGBTQ shelter in Boston. This is, in many ways, one of the most progressive cities in the nation. That being said, I would think that in the public policy and nonprofit worlds, the elevated psychological risks within the LGBTQ community would be more widely recognized and given consideration. The emotional turmoil of struggling with questions of gender identity (and the frequent estrangement from family that comes with it) obviously puts transgendered individuals at higher risk for depression, which can often lead to alcoholism or drug use, some very common components of homelessness. I feel like this is recognized and addressed in many resource centers, but not those with the means to offer residential services.

At least for now the Haley House staff and volunteers can make sure we do all we can to serve the same nourishing food and create the same welcoming atmosphere for our trans guests that we do for the rest of the homeless community.

The Refugee Component

Boston has residents of all kinds and is home to a good number of refugees from all over the world. I just never expected to meet any under my own roof.

I've recently begun to learn a little bit more about the people I'm working with, and have come to realize that the Bakery Cafe is much more than just a job training program. They do have some apprentices who are recently out of rehab or prison; In fact, one of our guys is graduating from the halfway house this week and will be getting a cake at work. However, the Bakery Cafe also employs people from the Dudley/Lower Roxbury area as part of the Dudley Square Revitalization efforts and, most importantly for a lot of them, hires without regard to CORI (Criminal Offender Record Information) scores.

But then there are the dishwasher and baker. I don't have their full stories, but I do know that our dishwasher is a Somali refugee with limited but functional English skills who is currently working to support his wife, 5 children and 2 nephews who live with him. One of his older nephews has recently also been hired by the Cafe after a brief probationary period of half-shifts. Our baker, the keeper of muffins, cupcakes, pineapple upside down cake, brownies and all other things delicious, is the tiniest Cambodian woman you ever did see. At probably 95 pounds soaking wet, I don't know how she lifts the giant bins of muffin batter, but she finds a way and is by far the most industrious of the crew, and always working with a smile, and is eager to giggle her way through teach me the ways of muffin-making, half in English and half in gestures and demonstrations.

John Leary House, one of HH's affordable housing units, is also home to an Iraqi family who has been living in Boston for several years undergoing medical treatment. Before coming to Boston, the family fell victim to a previously-unexploded IED which killed the mother, severely disabled the father and badly burnt the younger of the sons who now has mottled skin (from grafts) on a large portion of his body and left him with one ear and a portion of his scalp without hair. So, in the meantime, the boys, now 9 and 7, are living in Boston, attending school, have developed impeccable English, fight and help each other like brothers, and love Playstation and red Jolly Ranchers. Last night the HH crew had the pleasure of keeping the kids, as the father is currently in the hospital, and had a good time pushing them in the hammock in the common room, watching the YouTube videos they insisted were essential we see, and taking in Rat Race with them. All while the younger was running around in his bears-playing-basketball underpants. He may be missing a finger and a toe (his big toe was transplanted as a make-shift thumb on one hand, but he's still missing one of the fingers) but he can play sports like any other kid his age and loves baseball just as much. Kids' resiliency always amazes me.

In the soup kitchen, we get mostly what I consider "economic refugees." The aren't refugees in the same sense as the boys or Bakery workers, in that they don't have official refugee status but, no matter whether they have any kind of papers or not, these men (mostly Central American) were forced to flee their home countries in search of work after US policies collapsed or greatly damaged the economic systems in their own countries. These men have it the hardest of all because they are not eligible for the same resources and assistance that other refugees would be, and thus come be in our kitchen every morning.

Because Haley House runs such diversified set of programs, we get all kinds here. It's interesting for me to see that we're able to make a difference both for men who have lived in Boston their entire lives and for new arrivals.

The Guest Policy

2+ nights= 1 kitchen shift.

Haley House welcomes guests. Everyone loves to meet peoples' friends, families, significant others, and even some strangers passing through town who come recommended by other Catholic Worker houses, and get to know them. The only charge is that if a person is staying for more than one night, they work a soup kitchen shift.

Accommodations are modest-- we've got a couple of lofts with single or full beds which will have most likely unmatching but definitely clean sheets and bathrooms are all shared-- but that's not a bad deal for a place to stay, copious amounts of delicious food (though for the most part subject to whatever we've got in the house at the time) and awesome company. It also gives the people we love a chance to see and experience what we do.

We've already had a couple of interns' friends come stay for a few days and had a great time exchanging stories over barbecues on our rooftop deck and washing dishes in the kitchen. If you'd like to visit me and are looking for an alternative to the (expensive) touristy side of Boston, at least think about it.

The City

Living in Boston is like living in the Stuff White People Like Blog.

South End (where Haley House is located), especially.On the weekends and the occasional afternoon, I've found the time and energy to explore the city a little, and this is what I've found: Celtics fever, farmers' markets, teeny little art galleries galore, sensible shoes, ethnic restaurants, dubstep, more non-profits than rats per square mile, well-dressed 30-something gay men, cannoli shops, embarrassing work-out programs on the Common, (classical music) concert halls, prestigious universities and well-to-do white people sipping organic/fair trade coffee while wearing fleece pullovers (because there is nothing that a dutiful white person likes more in life than dressing up on the weekends in head-to-toe LL Bean and hiking with their giant dogs and lamenting the state of the environment and society at large).

Sometimes it's nice to be in a place where it's expected that people are socially conscious, well informed and eat granola, but I think I nearly started dancing on the sidewalk one day when a car drove by with the windows down blasting Reggaeton. People here go out to bars, listen to music, etc. but I guess I'm just missing that Southern/SoFla soul I've gotten used to over the past few years.

For now, though, I'm having fun. On nice days, my Charlie Card and I ride on up to North End, and I get a pistachio cannoli for lunch and sit in the park and read and stick my toes in the fountain. There are certainly worse ways to spend an afternoon. Usually, I'll hit up Haymarket, too, which is kind of a giant, London-style farmers' market where I can get anything from black berries to plantains 5 for $1 to halaal meat ("Try out fresh killed goat!").

Don't get me wrong-- it's not that there aren't black people or speakers of other languages in Boston; It's just that they're exactly where the upper-middle-class white establishment wants them: confined to Roxbury and Somerville (Quebecois, Germans and Scandinavians excluded; they're honorary "white people"). Boston is a pretty segregated city which, to me, makes places like South End kind of boring. I guess that's just more incentive to venture to other parts of the city on the weekends.

The Men

The guys that come into the soup kitchen are the raison d'etre of Haley House.

Occasionally they are loud, lewd or grumpy but, overwhelmingly, they are grateful because they know that Haley House is a unique kind of soup kitchen. We are the only one in town that doesn't have a security guard, and doesn't have a metal detector. Long ago, someone made a leap of faith to trust the men for the sake of building community and it has paid off. Now, when there is an altercation or some kind of situation, the men generally take care of it themselves, in defense of the sanctity of that community, and the staff rarely have to become involved. They value the atmosphere that Haley House provides and will be the first ones to tell someone he's being a jerk or take him outside to walk it off after an argument. Normally, we don't have any problems but, just to make sure, each shift has what we call a "vibe," which is the Haley House title for bouncer. The vibe sits by the door and makes sure those men who are barred don't try to come in, keep an eye and an ear out for brewing problems and, mostly, just chat with the guys.

Even more varied than the people who work at Haley House are the patrons, though they all have one thing in common: they're down on their luck. Most of the guys that come in are homeless, but some also come from the subsidized housing in the area. Sometimes it's hard to tell the difference, though. The ones who sleep outside are usually fairly identifiable. There are also those, though, that stay at Pinestreet Inn, the local shelter, every night where they eat, can do their laundry and are required to take a shower so they end up fairly clean, cleanshaven and wearing clean clothes. Pinestreet also kicks them out at 5:30 am, which results in a cluster of grumpy men waiting outside our doors every morning, many of whom work either as day laborers or out at the docks and just want to eat and be on their way. Many of the men we serve are on disability for mental illness of some kind, a few sufferers of PTSD, which is sometimes obvious and sometimes just manifests itself in slightly awkward behavior. A few of them had prior life traumas (death of a loved one, accident of some sort) that caused a break or a change in behavior, and for some of them those incidents happen every day ( getting beat up for being homeless, gang rape in prisons and shelters, etc.) A good number of them are also chronic alcoholics who have alienated themselves from their families and cannot hold down a job, and there are even a few crack or heroin addicts, and I'm learning to tell the signs as I get to know the guys better and better. I'd say a majority of men have spent time in prison which makes employment difficult to find, but has also made a few want to turn their lives around, making some extremely polite and hardworking and some religious zealots. Then there are a few who are simply migrant workers of documentation status unknown to me who have no one in the area except one another and little income or knowledge of their rights or the resources available to them.

Every once in a while these differences in mannerisms and capabilities becomes a problem. Some men don't speak, they just sign what they want; One man asks for a 5 sugars every day while holding up 3 fingers; I'm fairly sure a couple of them can't read; and one man literally has lost control of his bowels in the middle of the dining area a few times before. However, they generally aren't a problem, and are never barred unless they have a chronic problem with malicious behavior. There are so many men, they're bound to cover a spectrum of capabilities and present a variety of challenges.

Over the course of the past few weeks, though, I've gotten to know a few of them. I'm quickly learning names, and when we eat breakfast with them, we end up getting free chess lessons or hearing some amazing stories. There are men from Kenya, Britain, Uganda and all over Latin America, and some that have traveled pretty extensively with the military. I even got to see bullet wound scars from a former Ugandan soldier this morning. Many have PhDs or expertise in crafts like shipbuilding. I'm constantly amazed by how much I'm learning from the men. A few even eagerly put up with my broken Spanish and that of a couple of the other volunteers and interns. I have a favorite little old man, Miguel, who only comes to the elder meals, which are just a social time for old people in the community, (he thinks the men in the morning are unsavory characters with foul mouths) who is Cuban and smiles whenever he sees me and helps me practice my Spanish. Stay posted to see if Miguel succeeds in setting me up with his grandson.

I can see how people who have been here for a while get to know some of the men really well and I can't wait to see how many names I've learned by the end of summer.

The Community

Summer interns are not, in the business sense, part of the Live-In Community at Haley House. We are a temporary, ever-rotating group of people only here for a few months, whereas Community members have all made a more solid commitment to the organization of at least one year. For all intents and purposes, however, interns are, while here, living as a part of their community.

This is my first experience living as a part of an intentional community and I have to say that, after two and half weeks, I'm a fan. It's not just about having roommates or housemates (both of which I do have) or just about working really early morning shifts together (which we do). It's about being able to work together in order to work together. As Dahye said, we don't have to be best friends, but we do have to be able to live harmoniously enough together that we can successfully work together for the good of those we serve. So far, so good.

Let me start out by saying we're all really different from one another. There are going to be 11 of us at the full point this summer and we comprise diversity of every kind here: We range in age from 20 to 54, students and nonstudents, gay, straight and in between, Black, Hispanic, Jewish, Indian, East Asian and straight up WASP, I think we collectively speak 5 languages, we have stories from Sweden to Cambodia, one likes to DJ, one sews, one makes jewelery, a couple garden, a couple cook, one is allergic to wheat, one is a former sprinting champion and some of us love the cats here and some of us do not. We're an interesting bunch to get to know, and that has been my primary pastime since moving in.

We often cook together and eat together, hang our clothes to dry on the deck together, sit and read together, and even drink beer and watch Russian animation shorts together, all in varying numbers. People have their own friends, relatives and significant others outside of Haley House that they attend to, but when we're home, we generally enjoy each others' company and getting to know one another.

Good relations don't come without care, though. There are things that have to be done in order to maintain peace and foster respect. We share chores, and the rotating assignment list is posted on the wall of the kitchen. If you slack, people are going to grumble; I feel like that's Roommates 101. We try to keep the noise down late as Jon lives next to the common room. We try not to wake each other up when we get up at the crack of dawn and our roommates get to sleep in. We try to chip in with getting stuff done even when it's not our job. We ask questions to get to know people without being intrusive. We try to be as genuine as possible, giving praise when it's due and doing our best to express ourselves without excessive whining.

This isn't the glamorous life in the traditional sense, but I feel like it just seems to fit. We all go without some things in the name of working for room and board without wages or a stipend, but the next day it seems like whatever it was I was fretting about not wanting to spend money on doesn't even matter anymore. Those desires are so fleeting for me. We have lots of board games and sporting equipment around the house, we're within walking distance of the Charles River, we get movies from the public library, we have the radio on a lot and we have plenty of computers among us (for when the Internet is working properly) and we have a whole mini-library upstairs of books people have left and donated.

We never really get bored around here, and I think we're all okay living the simple life, getting up with the summer sun because we all really believe in the mission of Haley House and for the most part enjoy our work, which I dare say is more than most people have.

The work

What did you do at work today? Eat.

Haley House is truly an opportunity to mix my love of nonprofit work with my love for food.

3 days a week I roll out of bed in time to be downstairs at the soup kitchen for the 5:30 am breakfast shift-- sometimes that means 5 o'clock, sometimes 5:20, depending how ambitious my dressing and breakfast plans are. Getting up is much easier than I thought it would be, seeing as it gets light at 5:15 here every morning and the sun shines directly into my curtainless window. Once I'm actually down in the kitchen, though, I can pretty much cruise on auto-pilot for a little while: chop potatoes, season the homefries, get 'em in the oven because they take forever to cook; chop veggies for the eggs; slice fruit for the fruit salad; break 100+ eggs, beat, put 'em on the grill; serve at 7; eat & socialize with the guys around 8:30; dishes, dishes, dishes, more dishes; sweep; reflection. Somewhere in the middle I'm usually hunting down granola, brown sugar, Splenda or cheese the men are asking for or taking out the many loads of recycling we create every morning feeding 70 men.

Every intern works kitchen shifts. However, 4 days a week I also walk down to the Bakery/Cafe, about a mile and a half from the soup kitchen/live-in community, where my main duty this summer is serve as catering assistant to Danny. Right now, he's in New Hampshire for the birth of his daughter, who I think they're going to name Isabella, so I've been instructed to "learn the ways of the kitchen." This ends up translating to me following around whichever person will have me for the day while they show me what they're making and how to make it. After some failed attempts at Vietnamese spring rolls (oh darn, I just had to eat them), I ended up getting a masterful lesson in pizza-dough making from Ron. The Bakery/Cafe is really pretty popular in the community because a) the food is fantastic and b) people like knowing their catering order is going to a good cause. The Haley House Bakery/Cafe is used as a job training program for people re-entering mainstream society from prison or people who have recently finished up with a substance abuse rehab program. It provides job skills, its main objective, but mostly people do it for the sense of consistency and stability it provides in their lives. The application & interview process is rigorous so you know the people are there because they want to be and it definitely shows. Everyone is enthusiastic about their job, they get along well with Danny and with each other, and they are good at what they do. Mistakes happen, but they're all nice about it. Lucky for me, because starting out in this kitchen is not as easy as I'd thought. However, they're all excited to have a new face around and every time I ask what something is, they ask if I want to try it; every time there's a dropped, surplus or slightly deformed muffin, it's all mine. "It's a really important part of getting familiar with the food," said Danny. "I'm making it my personal mission to put 20 lbs on you by the end of summer." I don't know about that, but it's pretty darn good. So far, I've sampled the spring rolls (raw and vegan and served with yummy peanut sauce), carrot muffins, coconut cupcakes, brownies, carne guizada and chicken guizada and rhubarb upside down cake. Man, this summer is going to be rough. I can already tell. NOT.

The Arrival

I'm finally here. After weeks of anticipation and (mis)adventures on the T with a giant suitcase, I finally arrived at the Haley House soup kitchen in the midst of the mayhem of a Tuesday afternoon elder meal.
The House itself is really pretty charming. It's got 5 floors plus a basement where food is stored. The first floor is the soup kitchen, the second is offices and the top 3 are the live-in community housing (I'm going to have great legs by the end of the summer from going up and down the stairs so many times a day). Eventually I'll be sharing a room with 2 other girls, but only 2 of the 5 interns are here so far, so we've got our own rooms until next week, and the first pick of beds. Everything in the building is functional, but it's old and has character, which is what I love about the place. My bathroom has bright pink trim and one of the other rooms has purple walls. The sheets don't match and there is artwork all over the place. Likewise, the 5 year-round live-in volunteers don't take themselves too seriously and seem helpful and pretty friendly. They like making conversation-- especially about food-- and don't seem to mind Emily's and my thousand questions a day.
There are 2 cats who live here with us: Blackberry and Sherpa (who likes to climb things) who keep our basement mouse-free and provide us with entertainment.
The area is great. In the '60s, when the building was purchased and the soup kitchen was opened, the real estate was a $30K investment which is now worth $1.5M someone guessed. Back then this area of Back Bay/South End was the Skid Row of Boston but in the '80s entered a period of gentrification which has made it a friendly, quiet neighborhood, though it's quite close to the center of the city.
When I arrived at the the T stop yesterday, I was impressed walking through the neighborhood to the Haley House-- just a bunch of people commuting by foot, pushing strollers and walking dogs. Then when I saw our quarters with the big windows and fun colors, and went upstairs and the other community members asked if I was hungry (oh man was I ever) and then announced that there was rhubarb crisp in the oven that would be done in ten minutes, all I could think was "I'm home. This is going to be awesome."

The preparation

How do you pack 3 months of your life into 1 suitcase? It's harder than I'd expected.

Since speaking with my Haley House contact, Dahye, I've been trying to take the organization's self-proclaimed emphasis on simplicity to heart, trying to separate necessity from materialism, what I like from what I'll actually use. However, with the little information I have about what I'll actually be doing, the best I can do for packing is guess-- sneakers for kitchen work, cardigans for chilly evenings.
A big thanks to Mum & Dad for schooling me on New England weather and suggesting I dig into the back of my closet for some cardigans and a denim jacket (in May??). If I could survive half a year in London, tromping through the snow to work more than a few times, I'm sure I'll be fine.
Maybe it'll be a nice escape from the Florida heat-- I went to the beach this morning at 7:30 and was already sweating by the time I got home an hour later. Won't miss that.
So you add my kitchen-working clothes to my casual, around-town clothes and my pjs and mix in my girly love for strappy sandals and big earrings and you get one stuffed-to-the-brim, just-at-the-50-lb-weight-limit suitcase. whew. at least it rolls.
Tomorrow I bid adieu to the Sunshine state for the time being and say bonjour to my new life in Beantown!