adios, xanga...it's not you, it's me

So I've decided to switch over to blogger.com. I hope this doesn't particularly break anyone's heart, but I like their layout a lot better and I found out that they let people who don't have accounts comment, which I think is pretty cool. So I'll still keep up with my subscriptions here, but from now on you can find my own postings at:

HERE.

Currently, I have a pretty cool (to me at least) essay about a train rider that I interviewed, but I'm waiting on her to read it and confirm that she's okay with me publishing it before I post. Now I think I'm going to take a break from "serious writing" and enjoy my lovely Sabbath in Denver with a turkey sammich and free wi-fi.

That is all.

Just for the record:

I think having a bible study at midnight over Guinness and Taco Bell burritos might just be the only way to have a bible study.

=)

Oh, and I think I may have found my life's calling. Or at least the next decade or so.

That's all!

the deeper the roots, the higher the branches

Street names are an important concept here. The network of the homeless functions more like a family than anything else, because often enough that’s what has driven the kids to the street in the first place. You enter a street family to replace the family that abused, neglected, or abandoned you. Your street family shares with you, squats with you, fights for you, gets high with you. And your street family gives you a name. Your street name symbolizes your inclusion in the family, just a surname does in regular society. The names themselves are worth mentioning—they speak of many things and function as symbols themselves without any help from starry-eyed writers like me. So far, I have met Sprout, Paddy-O, Ganja, Cowpatty, Picky, Cage, Pigeon, Sissy, Sin, Evil, and Cupcake. (Funny sidenote: Evil and Cupcake are actually a couple and seem very happy together despite their contradictory names. They are about 18 or 19 and have a baby girl named Shelby.)

            If anyone disrespects the concept of the street family, the group is quick to remedy the problem, and not in the most diplomatic way. Of course there is the usual squabbling and bickering that families of any social class experience, but for the most part I’ve seen that these kids sincerely love each other and do their best to help everyone around them thrive in their conditions. This dynamic, however, begins to disintegrate as you climb up (or rather slide down) the hierarchy of drug addiction. “The loyalty just simply isn’t there,” Shane tells me about the hardcore heroin addicts. “I’ve known junkies who have delivered hotshots to their friends just to get more dope from a dealer.” ‘Hotshots’ are poisoned doses of heroin that are basically used as assassination weapons. Jimmy Fingers, one of the long-time regulars at Sox Place, died from a hotshot several years ago. Shane said that his girlfriend gave it to him knowingly. He was no older than twenty-four and is one of the most recurring names on the memorial walls in the hallway.

            Today was my third day being at Sox Place, and I’m beginning to get to know the kids better and learn what does and does not work to start conversations. For starters, starting conversations does not work to start conversations. There is a guardedness on the kids’ part and a painful awkwardness on my part. Going around with Shane or Dondria and being introduced to kids is good, but usually they will ignore me after the exchange of names. Here’s what does work – petting/asking about their dogs, offering to get them something they need, holding Jacob’s snake (it’s like holding a puppy – everyone wants to pet it), and playing pool. I played three games of pool today and loved on a boxer puppy named Havoc. Little by little, I’m getting more comfortable.

            Later in the day, Dondria introduces me to Paddy-O, one of her and Shane’s good friends and an “old school” kid, having been on the streets for about 15 years. Paddy is an Irish Elvis with slick black hair and a quick smile. He is extremely conversational and polite. Dondria tells me that Paddy is on his way to give a video interview to Dry Bones, one of the other street kid ministries in town. Paddy gladly offers to let me tag along to hear the story. On the way to Dry Bones, he asks about New Orleans and I find out he has lived there before, bartending at Madigan’s and attending culinary school at Delgado.

            The guys from Dry Bones want to film the interview in an iconic spot for street kids, so we pick a popular squatting spot underneath the Platt River. It consists of three adjacent tunnels that stretch all the way from the interstate and are meant to drain water into the river in case of heavy flooding. The spot is sometimes called “the art gallery” because of the amount of colorful, elaborate graffiti art that literally covers the inside walls as far back as the eye can see. Paddy-O sits on the edge of one of the tunnels and tells his story. I don’t have time today to recount the whole thing, but I’d like to end this update with his answer to this question: “What’s your best memory of your life on the streets?”

            “My best memory would probably be when I was in this little bar in Arkansas, drinking a tallboy Pabst. This old man came up to me and said, ‘Hey boy, you want something to do?’ I said sure, so we left the bar and hopped in his car and drove out to this big plot of land with a double-wide trailer on it. We went inside and it was a woodshop, just completely a mess. ‘Well what are you waiting for?’ the man said. ‘Get to work.’ So in about four hours I had the place all cleaned up, tools all put in order. I knew where all the different types of wood were. Then he said, ‘Well go ahead, boy. The patterns are right there. If you have any questions, I’ll be right here sitting in this chair and drinking this beer.’ I didn’t know anything about working with wood, but my great-grandfather, my grandfather, and my dad had all been carpenters. I kept working with this guy and it just came natural. Pretty soon I was making guitars, mandolins, and dulcimers. That was one of my best memories.”

what i learned over the weekend

graffiti

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Over blue and red Freez-E-Pops on the floor of his new apartment, Shane tells me about robbing people.

"I would ambush 'em over by the park. Me and some buddies broke open the lights and turned them to face the street so the whole back half of the park was pitch black. Get 'em in a sleeper hold"--he crooks his elbow around an imaginary neck to demonstrate--"Wait till they go limp, then roll 'em over and slam! hit 'em in the face." Shane would take the cash from rich men's wallets (credit cards were too much of a hassle) and return to the kids, as he calls them. "Let's go get something to eat, guys," he would say. When they asked him where he got all the money, he would tell them not to worry about it.

Shane speaks with unabashed honesty about his past. He has none of the suspicion that I expected, that I myself would probably have if some random girl from across the country showed up wanting to interview and write about all the painful, ugly circumstances of my life. He and his wife Dondria have opened up their brand-new two-bedroom apartment to me for the rest of my time here. They introduced me to their friends at Sox Place, let me play with their two kids - Nate and Emily. Yesterday Shane bought me a Vitamin Water after we walked for an hour in the hot downtown sun and I realized I left my wallet at the motel. Dondria is so loving and sweet to me that I find it hard to believe her when she says that she used to be "a very mean girl."

"Oh yeah," Sox confirms. "She used to be nasty mean. Wouldn't talk to me for the first two years, but she would take my socks. Then she got pregnant with Emily and got all sweet."

Later that night, Dondria tells it a different way: "I didn't trust Doyle at first. I mean, what does this guy want? What's his angle? Then he got the building and people started going there and I hated it. Then Josh died." Josh, or Mosh Josh, or Skitzo, stabbed himself twice in the chest in front of Dondria and his girlfriend one night. "He didn't quite get his heart," she says. "He probably would have lived if he hadn't gone running out the apartment." After Josh's death, Dondria and Shane became regulars at Sox Place and Dondria slowly began to open up to Doyle. When Doyle's wife Karen found out she was pregnant with Emily, she threw a huge baby shower for her and showed up with a mini-van literally filled to the roof with gifts from people all over the country. Dondria and Shane have both said to me on separate occasions that Doyle is the closest thing to a father that they've ever had and that Doyle's family has done more for them than anyone in their lives.

Two weeks ago, after nine years of encountering the love of Christ at Sox Place, Shane and Dondria gave their lives to Jesus. Shane calls it "coming to the light." A week ago Sox baptized them in the Platt River, just a little ways down from where Shane used to shoot heroin. Last night, after a long battle of putting the kids to bed, I watched them both open their Bibles and read silently together the Word that has become life to them.

This is the Church in action.

memorial tags

"They devoted themselves to the apostles' teaching and to the fellowship, to the breaking of bread and to prayer. Everyone was filled with awe, and many wonders and miraculous signs were done by the apostles. All the believers were together and had everything in common. Selling their possessions and goods, they gave to anyone as he had need. Every day they continued to meet together in the temple courts. They broke bread in their homes and ate together with glad and sincere hearts, praising God and enjoying the favor of all the people. And the Lord added to their number daily those who were being saved." Acts 2:42-47

Toto, we're not in San Miguel anymore

So as I'm standing in the middle of dowtown Denver at 11 o'clock at night after a 3-hour flight delay watching a toddler named Nate stick Cheetos in his nose and holding a foot-long snake who I'm told is busy digesting some mice, I realize that some parts of the U.S. can be much more of a culture shock than Mexico. In fact, now I'm having to get used to fully understanding service industry workers and speaking in complete English sentences.

I'm exhausted and drained, but absolutely excited to be here. There is so much love at Sox Place, and so much opportunity to learn. I know that God is going to open my eyes in a thousand new ways. Sox said that since I'm a writer, I should "just hang around and soak it up, ask questions about everything." I plan to do just that.

I also might cook jambalaya for everyone, so if someone has a good family recipe, please send it to me. I was kind of bluffing because I've only made it once.

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more to come soon, as I get settled and get to writing...