An Iliad

If you want cheap seats at the Pearl District's swanky Portland Center Stage Theater, you've got to dress up, find parking, and then linger around the front door of the theater until the Rush line opens just five minutes before showtime, hoping a couple of unsold seats remain. It's a risk, but when you do get seats, it's totally worth it. The other night, Brian and I did just this to catch a rendition of The Iliad.

We arrived about half an hour before the cheap seats were on sale, so Brian found the men's room and I waited outside to get some fresh air before the tickets went on sale. 

At the front entrance, I had two choices of company-by-proximity to choose from: a high school girl smoking a cigarette, apparently on break from a pastry shop around the corner, or a homeless guy, muttering to himself and sitting on the sidewalk, similarly cigaretted. I chose the latter. I stood about a foot away from him, leaned on the brick wall at the entrance of the theater and took in a spoonful of ice cream from the Ben & Jerry's we'd picked up across the street (sorry, Dad).  

The guy beside me wears a dingy red scarf and some finger-less mittens, and he fidgets with his cigarette. And he's muttering. He's muttering about how all the people walking past aren't paying any attention to him. He's not talking to me, per say, he's just complaining. Couples are walking past, wearing tweed jackets and heels and boots, their eyes meeting mine at eye-level, trying not to look down at this mumbling man in their peripheral.

I want to cross into his world, though. Break through his plane of anonymity. I lean over and look him in the eye, sideways. "How ya doin?" I ask.

He laughs, looking up towards the other side of the street. "Good!" He chuckles. "Just...good. I'm alright. And how are you?" He's friendly enough, I can see. Just caught in a sad moment of mumbling.

"Oh, I'm great," I say, straightening up. The women walking past me into the theater continue catching my eye, now shooting me darts of warning, cautioning me against talking to someone so dangerous as him. But I keep up the conversation. "I'm feeling good, 'cause I've got some ice cream." 

"Ice cream!" He laughs, lighting a new cigarette with the butt of his first one. "It's too cold for ice cream!" 

"But it's banana ice cream," I clarify. "It's never too cold for that. What kind of ice cream do you like?" 

He snuffs out his stub. "I'd like ice cream that's ash flavored," he snickers. "I bet that'd be a tough flavor to make." 

Brian shows up beside me, fog coming from his warm breath, and he alerts me that we've still got a few minutes before the cheap seats go on sale. I fill him in on my conversation with the guy on the ground, and the three of us laugh at the idea of a burnt-tobacco ice cream. We brought him a smile. It's good.

Brian suggests a walk around the block before we go in, so I say goodbye to my cigarette friend and walk away. We pass another homeless woman asking for money around the corner and tell her we don't have any cash, and I don't even know if that was true or not. 

As we get back to the theater entrance, our friend is now standing on the far edge of the sidewalk, looking directly into the doors to the foyer. I think he just likes people-watching, even if he complains while doing it. We walk in and go get a coffee at the Theater Cafe, and we sit down, keeping one eye on the Rush ticket counter. 

And then he walks in. The homeless guy walks into the foyer, amidst all the well-dressed theater-goers, and he shuffles right through them. Brian's still eyeing at the ticket counter, but I'm looking at our friend, unable to predict what might happen. The woman at the entrance desk speaks to him, as if to acknowledge that he's done this before, but he gets swept up by the incoming crowd and heads downstairs. "Restroom," I assume to myself. The other guests don't seem to notice him, and he staggers slowly down the stairs in a foot-dragging daze. 

A moment later, Brian gets up and buys our Rush tickets without a problem, and we follow the crowd downstairs to the playhouse. We gather with 50 other men and women who are talking in small groups, going to and from the restrooms and heading into the playhouse. And there's our man on a bench at the bottom of the stairs, muttering again, surely about the fact that no one, still, has noticed him. He didn't need to use the restroom. He was just following the crowd. 

Brian and I walk into the small theater and find some seats, just a few rows up from the floor that's peppered with a few props, across from identical seats on the other side. Plenty of people are already there, and more continue to file in. And I can't get this guy out of my mind. Has anyone else spoken to him? Will he get kicked out when all other guests are out of the downstairs foyer? Was he drunk? Crazy? Sick? Would he stay out there in the foyer, now that all the people to be watched were gone? The lights go dark, and I shake myself out of it. Forget him. I had Greek mythology to focus on, and Lord knows, that's going to take all the brain power I've got. 

I hear a shout from outside. A loud male voice. Oh, and I groan. He's yelling, I'm sure. He's been asked to leave and now he's yelling. The voice gets louder, and I get more uncomfortable. I want to go stick up for this guy, this not-so-bad guy on the sidewalk I met moments ago. I'm feeling sick. I'm feeling sad. 

Louder still, the voice, I realize, doesn't sound angry. I listen a tick longer, and the voice, I realize, doesn't sound English. It's...it's Greek. A spotlight focuses on the entrance to the room, and that ragged, grumpy, mumbling old homeless man with the dingy red scarf stumbles right into it. He's speaking Greek. Really well. He takes off his hat and moves forward into the room. I turn to Brian. "That's him," I mouth. Brian squints, smiles and nods. "That's him," he confirms. 

I looked back at the man, blinking through the spotlight to triple-confirm that the mumbler I'd just met was actually speaking Greek and in the center of the room at this one-act play. I look around towards the faces of the other guests and not one looked shocked. Not one of the people seemed to recognize the face of the man they'd refused to notice just moments before.

My homeless friend went on to perform for nearly two hours, without an intermission. He was a poet, commissioned by the gods to retell the tale of the Iliad through eternity. The poet painfully related the hurt and long-suffering of this war to other battles of our own history.

He reminded us that the boys who died in the war of this story are the same boys of Michigan, Oregon, Georgia that we know and have lost in our own wars. He suggests that the war he tells of is the same war we've been fighting through time, just on different soil and in different garb. He cried. We cried. War is all around us, and it's killing us.

As we stood in that ovation, I cried because of the staunch reminder of war's horrible truth he'd given me that night, but I also cried because of the double-meaning of his message. For me, The Iliad was recalled in great detail and emotion, not just by a poet, but by a homeless person. He unwrapped one of the greatest lores of history, and we nearly all missed hearing it because we rushed right past him.

The friends I meet who live on the streets are those same brothers who the Poet in this play reminded us we lose to war. They are men and women who have endured the sort of trauma that folktales are written about. They've been abused, have known the face of loneliness by name, have been comforted by life-threatening addictions and have all but given up completely on the notion that life on earth has anything good to reveal to them.

But homeless people can also laugh at a silly joke, enjoy the simplicity of a meal and give of themselves to others in need. If you take a moment to talk to a friend on the street, you might hear a beautiful story from someone you'd never noticed before. You might find comfort in the fact that we are all brothers. You might just be brought to tears.  

Update on Friday, November 12, 2010 at 10:49AM by Darsey Landoe

In what can only be divine intervention to wrap up the six crazy months I've just lived through, this story took another turn last night. Thursday, November 11, was the Rescue Mission's annual Celebration Banquet. The Development team (ie., my team) works basically half the year to prepare for this night. We welcome 450+ guests to a downtown hotel venue, give them a nice dinner and put on a program that highlights the year's success stories and changes so that our donors can really experience what it is that we do. We write the script, produce the video and coordinate all the participants, and make all the materials that compose the evening. It's a huge night—it's awesome to get to meet so many donors who support us through the year, and I know they get a lot out of learning more about the work we do. It's such a valuable experience, but by the end of it, I'm zonked.

At the end of a 15-hour day, I was walking down from the ballroom at The Governor hotel last night with my husband and a woman who helped with the event, all of our arms full of bags and coats and boxes from the evening. We had to exit through Jake's Restaurant at the bottom of the hotel, and right before I reached the door, I see him. HIM! The guy from An Iliad! And that's exactly what I blurted out: "You're the guy! The guy from An Iliad!" Joe Graves stares back at me and offers a sheepish, "Yes." He'd just finished a performance that night, so at 10:30 he was enjoying a coffee and a snack in the restaurant we happened to pass through. I told him I'd talked with him one night before his performance, was so shocked and inspired by the fact that he wasn't homeless, but the main actor in the play, and I just wanted to encourage him to keep it up.

I'll be honest. I completely blubbered my way through the conversation and hardly gave him a minute to talk, but I was exhausted and feeling rushed and didn't want to intrude on his quiet evening. But I did tell him I blogged about him, and that I was inspired, and that I hope he enjoys his stay in Portland (he lives in Beijing). I told him I worked at the Rescue Mission with homeless folks and I know they have these same sorts of stories. I know the theater has gotten a lot of flack from guests regarding the homeless man out front, not wanting to "be confronted with that sort of thing in the Pearl district," so I figure any blubbering compliment I could muster might mean something positive to him.

He asked my name, and he told me his was Joe. So Joe, keep it up. Keep sharing your story, and thanks for sharing it with me.

NPR's Tiny Desk Concerts

My heart. My heart, even within the past week, has just been revitalized with adoration of music. Maybe it's because I just went through my entire music library to make a wedding mix and relived so many memories of sound. Perhaps it's because Brian and I just bought a (terrifically huge) television and I've been glued to the screen, watching the David Gray concert dvd till my eyes dry open from not blinking. Maybe, maybe life's just really, really good right now and each and every atom in my body just wants to dance. But I love music. I love music so much I just want to sing about it!

Instead, I'm here at my desk, working on some design projects with my headphones on. And while I'm sure Nathan, my office roommate, wouldn't be so rude as to object to my singing while I work, I'll spare him today. I point you, then, to this little goldmine of tunes, NPR's Tiny Desk Concerts. Hey, if they're listening to incredible music from 9 to 5, then so can I.

The gist is simple: Bob Boilen at NPR finds an artist who he'd like to have in his office in DC. The artist sets up a visit and just does a small set. You can literally see folks working on their computers, walking through with papers, going about their day. And the artists play. Bob's favorite question to ask is, "Have you ever had a desk job?" The answers no doubt speak right to so many listeners like me, working away at our own desk jobs, most likely.

Sometimes just the lead singer of a group shows up, and sometimes it's the full band. Sometimes there's only one instrument, sometimes it's nearly an orchestra. But each and every show just makes you fall in love with ingenuity and expression in a whole new way. I swear, the stripped-down factor leaves you thinking, "I should have been a musician. I could do that." Each note is clear, each glitch is heard, and still it's nearly perfect.

I don't mean to plug one site via another, but YouTube actually has a great channel dedicated to these little diddies. Over the past two days, I've been filling my ears with some great tunes as I work, just going from one semi-obscure artist to the next. My favorites? I'm glad you asked.

• If you haven't seen the Avett Brothers live yet, this'll make ya buy a ticket.
• Oh how I love the Swell Season. Marketa displays such a sweet and shy and awkward personality, it's just adorable. It's surprising how many artists on TDC seem so shy. I think it's just the close proximity with strangers who know a lot about you. But she and Glen are great here, because he keeps on saying, "one more song," "just two more songs." It just lasts forever. 
• The Tallest Man on Earth! He's actually really short, but man, what soul! I just heard about him recently (thanks, Gray), and I'm completely sold. Just. Wow. Just watch it. And then go buy his music. 
• Thao Nguyen. Never heard of her until yesterday. Check our the first song, at the very least. When I was talking about every atom in my body dancing, this is what I meant. I don't know what she's singing about, but lawdy, I don't even care!
• Wait. Haven't I heard of you? I don't know where or when, but I think I liked you, K'Naan, and know I remember why.
• Rodrigo y Gabriela. Stoppit.
• And if you're sad and blue, if you don't know what to do, if you've lost what makes you you, just watch this and be happy. These people are life. I could eat this up with a spoon. Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeroes. I am a complete life-loving hippy at heart, and I wouldn't have it any other way.

There are many more videos on the actual NPR site. If you've never listened to these before, finding them is like starting a dvd television series of the best show ever. Once you realize how sweet it is, you can rest in the glorious assurance that there are many, many more episodes to go.

Give some a listen, and then let me know which ones are your favorites. Love music!

Portland Rescue Mission

My girl, Terri, in the center, who's a recent graduate of our recovery program,
with two of her friends at our women's outreach day.

Today I'm brainstorming. I'm thinking about a new look for Portland Rescue Mission, the homeless shelter and recovery ministry where I work. I love it here. Truth be told, I'm the sort of person who's heart and soul have to truly agree with a cause for it to earn my full attention and diligence, and the Rescue Mission does just that. Sure, it has rough days like any other job, but even when I'm frustrated or just plain confused about what I'm doing here, I think about the guests and residents who I call my friends, and I'm immediately reminded why I'm here. Feels good.

So yeah, I'm brainstorming. We've had the current logo for years, and most who work here don't feel an emotional connection to the logo in the least. Many who work here would say they've never felt emotionally connected to any logo in the first place. Rarely does a symbol make most people want to get out of bed in the morning. But that's what I want to do. I want to wake people up with a visual identity that makes them say, "Yeah! That us! Let's do it!" It's a slow process, and I'm not sure where to start, but once a week I dig into the deep parts of my brain and see what's there.

I like good words about as much as I like good design, so my creative thinking generally begins with words on a page. Sketches in the margins, perhaps, but the whole of my pages are filled with rambly thoughts and bullet points. So, I give you my brainstorming. If I could create our new logo with words, it'd look something like this:

• I would draw faces, hearts, embraces.
• I'd draw fights and tears, people with arms crossed, people crying on their knees in prayer.
• I'd draw staff, donors, volunteers, all constantly in various states of joy, openness, and enlightenment.
• I'd draw skeptics whose eyes are opened. Homeless people who've finally found a listening ear.
• I'd draw talking heads in the media, serving food or sitting on a sidewalk, hugging dirty people, and deciding to use their voice to encourage action rather than to foster fear (yes!).
• I'd draw our staff at their wits' end, shaking their fists to the sky, looking for God.
• I'd draw that shell-shocked face of a new resident, wandering aimlessly behind the scenes at Burnside Shelter, hoping to find routine in this new way of life. I'd draw that same resident as our staff sees him, a changed person, the person he's truly meant to be, though he doesn't know who that is just yet.
• I'd draw a guest outside on the gospel, desperate to hear the Gospel, smiling through pain.
• I'd draw a resident, still reluctant to let Christ in, still diligently (as he ought) trying to figure it all out.
• I'd draw a single drop of water, a single drop of hope, nourishing a person's entire body.
• I'd draw renewed confidence, a return to true self.
• I'd draw a tiny piece of heaven, brought here, to earth, right now.

If you've never been involved in homeless outreach, I encourage you, do something. Do something soon. Go have your opinions on the matter challenged and changed, no matter where you stand.

Then, tell me what you'd draw.

Good Magazine (but only because they picked me first)

Okay, I'll explain.

I was at New Seasons the other night picking up some Alpenrose organic milk (why does this stuff takes twice as long to expire as the regular kind?) and hand lotion, and I saw the new issue of Good Magazine on the shelf at check-out, happily looking up at me. I used to subscribe to Good, but in recent years have let my many magazine subscriptions expire in my attempt to be a financially prudent adult (yawn). So when the mood really hits me, I'll just make a newsstand purchase. Point is, I grabbed Good to give me some tangible pages to turn over the next week. And I'm glad I did.

Before I go further, I will say that Good Magazine has put itself in a tough position simply by giving itself its name. "Good" is about as loose a term as "right" or "free" or even "clean," and as a huge fan of the magazine, I'll openly admit that I often question their definition of the term. I don't agree with everything they put in print as being good. But they're definitely a great source for thoughts on progressive initiatives facing our country and the world at large. They reduce big issues to specifics, and they magnify interesting mindsets of small groups as important to the "greater good." And their design is so clean and straightforward and smart and clever. Makes me wanna weep.

So the cover this month illustrates The Good 100, their list of 100 things going on in America that are worth getting excited about. Mentioned are groups against the mountaintop-removal mining going on in the Appalachians, microlending, the man who may become the first black governor of Alabama (and the fifth black governor in the U.S.), and a new street artist known as JR who gives Banksy a run for his money. But right in the midst of that list, I had to read one entry twice to make sure I was seeing straight. That's right. Entry number 25: The People of Portland.

If you've had a conversation with me sometime in the past three years, I'm sure I've mentioned to you my love for this city in a far corner of the States. For me, Portland has it all. The weather has me convinced that everything in life really will be alright as long as a crisp breeze (or light mist) ruffles your hair once a day. The food options are more than endless—rather than trying to experience it all, I'm just focusing on finding my favorites and making every meal a new experience. People here are FRIENDLY, in a way that really satisfies my Southern roots, and I've learned that when you live in a city full of transplants, everyone is hospitable, because they've all really benefited from others' friendliness at some point. There are tons of non-profits here, and what's awesome about a city with high non-profit capabilities is that they have the means to seek out similarly-minded people to work for them. While less fortunate non-profits might not be able to hire a graphic designer full-time (ahem) because of tight budgets, organizations which find themselves in a city where non-profits are tried and true can seek out highly qualified people at the right price, and thus situate themselves, because of those hires, on the cusp of their area of expertise. It's really a good thing.

So, while I may only be patting myself on the back for finally moving to the place that I love (or thanking God that it finally came together), I commend Good Magazine for picking this beautiful community as one of it's Good 100 Things. Good mentioned Portland's "urban-growth boundary," its public transit system, its high number of bikers, its well-earned yet only moderately-flaunted beer- wine- and coffee-snobbery, and its acceptance of small livestock within city limits (moo) as factors in its decision. I could add to that list for days.

I see glimpses of people I know from my life every day in the city. Conservative or liberal, wealthy or jobless, fancy or funky, steadfastly religious or steadfastly undecided, Portland is open, comfortable, and happy to have you. I truly love what living here is. I think you might, too.

Look forward to the next handful of posts focusing on some of my favorite aspects of this glorious place.

Thanks, Good. I needed that.

Bahamas Methodist Habitat

To all readers: Thanks for bearing with me as I haven't written in months. Here we go, now.

I still have gnat bites on my ankles to remind me of the trip I took a month ago to visit my best friend, Emily, at the Bahamas Methodist Habitat in James Cistern on Eleuthera, in the Bahamas. Yeah. Quite a mouthful, huh? Let's start at the beginning. I have gnat bites on my ankles. That much is clear. Emily is my best friend from home. She's working at the Habitat, which is a Methodist organization set up to assist families who need hurricane relief, as well as with general needs. The habitat is in the settlement of James Cistern (J.C.), so named for the ship captain who ran his boat into the shores where he'd later settle a community, and this all happened on the family island of Eleuthera ("el-LOO-thra"). Family Island? That'd be any island in the Bahamas other than Nassau or Freeport. And there are 698 of them. No joke!

I think Em and I faced seventeen new adventures every day. We went to a Bahamian ("bah-HAIM-ee-an") wedding, went to Good Friday and Easter Sunday services where I was certain the pastor would pluck me straight out of my seat and make an example out of me in front of the whole church (for what, I'm still unsure), hiked TWENTY-THREE miles in a day, only to hitchhike twenty more and camp out in her friend's backyard, parked the Habitat's school bus at a luxury resort so that we could eat lunch, camped in a conversion van on a beach, took care of number one and number two in the woods (first time ever!), toured around in a sea kayak for a while, paddled out to see on surfboards, caught a sweet sunrise, went to the narrowest point on the island where we could see both sides of the ocean, saw sea turtles, drove on the wrong side of the road in the middle of the night with no street lights, hung out at the settlement's homecoming festivities (though the aforementioned pastor told us explicitly NOT to do so), went to a bar and danced with an old tambourine man, babysat four kids while their parents went to a doctor in Nassau, ate really well and only got a tiny bit of a sunburn. The trip was incredible. Of course I only have a few pictures, so this one of the view that first morning from the caravan will have to illustrate my entire trip.

All those adventures aside, I didn't get to experience very much of Emily's actual work at the Mission, as she had a lot of down time for my visit. But I talked with her about it plenty, and it what I learned was so interesting. She said they see groups from all over, and set them up with people in the community who need help, generally with construction. While most of the work they do is hurricane relief, there is tons of work to do in general, as lots of the buildings in the settlement are far below the standards that most Americans are used to. Emily told me that Bahamians can't get loans from banks, so their method of homebuilding is very different from ours. Instead of getting a loan, building a house in 2 months, and then paying for it for thirty years, they save a lot of money and build a foundation, save a lot of money and build walls, save a lot of money and build a roof, and so on until the house is built. A house on Eleuthera takes seven to ten years to build, but it's completely paid for once it's done. So while you drive around the island and think that so many places are in shambles, it's actually the opposite. They're being built.

It's funny, I'd thought a lot about Em being down there and just living the life—mission work? In the Bahamas? Honestly. But I got there and saw a scene far different from what I expected. It was completely beautiful and clear and clean. That much I was right about. But the Bahamas are a third-world country. There is very little for the people on Eleuthera to do for work. From the outside looking in, it seems they are third world (bear with me, I know nothing of history) not so much because of oppression, but because of inaccessibility and ignorance of better ways of doing things. I don't know how you'd go down there and earn money, after having spent my life in the States. Kids wear the same clothes for days on end, there's hardly anything fresh to buy in their small grocery stores, and the cars they drive are decades old. It just felt like this place hadn't been exposed to the rest of modern culture for years. So much of the country's inhabited areas look just like Eleuthera. So yeah, there's always a load of work for Emily and her crew to do. People need help with their homes, with buying goods from the States and having them shipped over, with good counsel and friendship. They need help just like anyone else.

But in other ways, it was just like you'd expect it to be. These lucky Bahamians get to live in a beautiful place. The people there are happy and engaging, ready to give you a hug and a kiss and share their lives with you as soon as you've met them. Emily knows everyone on the island, I swear. Admittedly, the girl naturally never meets a stranger, but I had so much fun seeing her interact with so many of the people on the island. As we were hiking, miles from J.C., she'd chat with any passerby. Even with strangers, people there are comfortable passing time as friends. I can't say that the people lie around and relax, sipping coconut juice and surfing—many of the kids in J.C. couldn't even swim—but there is this sense there of a nurturing community that you can't find in many places I've been. It felt good. It felt like home. I know I could go back and find that same sort of comfort again.

Em is leaving J.C. soon to start school at Wesley Theological Seminary in the fall. I know she's unsure of how she'll adjust to life in the city after being on the island for so long, and undoubtedly, she'll miss it. But maybe it's not just the friends and the Habitat and the sun and surf that she'll miss. Maybe, instead, it's that community—knowing everyone you meet and not thinking a second about helping someone out who's in need. Our country is a crazy place, and most of us don't have time to even get to know the people who live in the house or apartment beside us. I'm so glad I've been reminded that it's possible to live and work and share our lives with one another.

Paul Harvey

Good day.

I remember car rides as a kid, trekking up to north Georgia to stay at Dillard for a week, completely convinced that the nearby slopes I would ski that week were the tallest in the world. Dad would listen to Car Talk, to James Taylor or Carole King, and if we were lucky, he'd turn the dial at just the right time to tune into Paul Harvey, and that warbly voice would drive us through the rest of the story.

Paul Harvey was the voice behind Paul Harvey News and Comment, the show he began hosting on ABC in 1951. He followed the news, but instead of bringing it to us, he commented on it with us, telling us things we already knew in a way that made us think we'd learned of them standing right beside him in the first place. Certainly speaking from a conservative standpoint, Paul's voice was like any old guy down the street, the guy who tells you how it is, and you realize that no matter how limited his words may seem to you in your place and time and situation, there was a hefty bit of truth and thought packed into every corner of them, and they're worth every bit of your consideration.

What you likely remember most about Paul is his telling "The Rest of the Story." He'd open a tale by telling the twist of it, the climax. He's leave out names, places, times, and just tell you the height of what happened. Within those first three minutes, all 12 million weekly listeners would be hooked as he then worked the story backwards, revealing crucial details in reverse so that the story unfolded in an enrapturing manner. Often the ending (or rather, beginning) revealed a well-known character with whom you'd never associate such a tale, or an event in history that you'd studied for years without ever learning this one little part. "The Rest of the Story" is how I remember Paul Harvey. He makes me love the art of story-telling. He reminds me of the beauty of simple enunciation. He makes me want to take a drive. He makes me want to hug my Grandpa (both of them).

Paul's wife, Lynne, was his producer from the very start. She was diagnosed with leukemia in 2007 and passed away a year later. Paul continued to broadcast, with the assistance of his son, and was active in his work even up until the week before his death on February 28 of this year. His wife and his son's involvement in his work made his career a true life's endeavor, and that commitment showed itself in his earnest story telling as well in his dedication to the products and services he endorsed in his show's commercials. During his stories, there was never a break to a canned 30-second commercial. Paul did the advertisements himself, telling viewers of the newest Bose Speaker advancements or of his choice for life insurance. Paul bought and researched products in insistence on knowing and loving everything he spoke about. Beginning to end, up front and behind the scenes, his broadcasts were infused with transparent honesty.

Paul, we will miss you, and I hope my generation is one who will continue to tell stories in way you taught us.

Sure We Can

Do you know Drew Swope? You ought to. He's a great friend of mine from Furman, someone who shares my interest and passion in the less affluent and homeless of our community, and also just a super wacky guy and a sponge for the good things in life. Okay, we also have the same birthday, so there's further evidence of our natural friendship. Since he's graduated, he's proven to be someone who's willing to act on that passion for the homeless. He moved to NYC and lived in a Catholic shelter with the homeless of Brooklyn for a year and was exposed to people and situations he'd never imagined. In an email once, I asked him if that experience, with all the struggles and obstacles and insanely tough and maddening times, if that made him more or less insistent on working for the poor after his year was up. He answered, in true Drew fashion, "More. I want to start a revolution." He's on his way.

After that first year out, Drew spent some time intentionally living on the streets in New York, getting to know the homeless even more and incorporating their mindset into his daily activities. He contacted me at some point during that time to tell me about some people's means of earning money, something we've all seen firsthand at some point: can collecting. He went on and on about how effective it could be for his peers to collect cans and bottles for money, how helpful that is for the environment in general, and how there is such a need for efficient and honest redemption centers in big cities that have populations large enough to support this endeavor. Apparently there weren't a ton of places where people could easily go to redeem their cans in Brooklyn, and Drew's vision was to provide such a place. Thus, the beginning of Sure We Can.

Drew's working with a woman named Ana Martinez De Luco and an expert canner named Eugene “The King of Cans” Gadsden. They've already set up a redemption center in Brooklyn, but they have plans of making it bigger and more inclusive, something more of a community center than a facility exclusively for canning. Redemption comes to mean more than just cans in the type of center they're envisioning, and calling it Sure We Can certainly invites broad interpretation. By working so closely with people in need, and loving them as they love their closest friends, Sure We Can will bring hope and convenience to these New Yorkers who simply seek success and opportunity.

I ask you all to check out this podcast on Idealist.org to hear Drew, Ana and Eugene talk about their work. I've been able to work through some logo possibilities for the organization, and I'm so excited to see how all of this comes to life. I'll also be in New York this weekend and will get to see the redemption center firsthand, so I'll take some pics and post them soon! Drew, thanks for doing this work. I am aglow.

The Procrastinator

Just a quick one this morning! Michael Orr and some buddies from school and elsewhere put out a great bi-weekly email publication called The Procrastinator. With topics ranging from politics to sports to culture to a standard "Fifth Column" fiction piece, these writers really provide some food for thought. Michael's married to one of my good college friends, and I was lucky enough to reconnect with them just as he was looking for a fresh approach to his masthead. I like to think I got it to him right in the nick of time. Maybe good things really do come to those who wait.

Good work Mike!

The Next American City

Meyers-Briggs told me I'd be an architect, and I tossed the test results aside. But I cannot escape the interest I have in urban development, neighborhood organization and efficiency, and social problems in relation to city structure. As I discussed once with an old friend, if I weren't a graphic designer, I think I'd be a city planner. He clairvoyantly concluded, "so instead of rearranging shapes on a screen so that their visual relationships make more sense, you want to rearrange people on the map so that their personal relationships are strengthened." Um, yep. That's about it.

I was lucky enough to do some reading in this area during college, and even more fortunate to have friends who were actively interested in the same thing. I read a great book right after I graduated called When Work Disappears: The World of The New Urban Poor by William Juilius Wilson. It discussed the notion that today's poor are largely unemployed, while the poor of 50 years ago were working, albeit for very low wages. By focusing his study on the notoriously poor and dangerous neighborhood, Cabrini Green, on Chicago's south side, Wilson discussed the obstacles to success with old and young residents. Whereas someone from the outside might point to race as an explanation for the problem, or even stubbornness as the root of it, Wilson defines a "culture of poverty" where characteristics of poor culture are so engrained in the mentality and even more reinforced by outside circumstances. Neighborhoods like this, where there is little police presence, no healthy food stores and little other businesses aside from liquor shops, and poor schooling, there is such little prospect for people breaking the cycle and having successful, contributive lives.

I say all that simply to say that neighborhood systems are complicated, and most of us who live comfortable lives and are fortunate enough to have taken advantage and reaped the benefits of some schooling have very little idea of how our surroundings affect us, because our lives' surroundings have generally affected us positively. The Next American City is a magazine which provides a discourse on urban structure—the good, bad, and ugly—and its home is also the city of Chicago. I got into the magazine around the same time that I read this book, and their contents were such great complements. While the book talks about the perils of a downtrodden inner-city, NAC talks about people turning bad areas around, people initiating change and forward-thinking, and people taking stock in what's important and sincere about a dwelling place and making sure it stays that way. NAC focuses on conversations that lead to solutions.

What's more, the magazine delves into topics that are skimmed at best in the standard news. Topics range from tent cities in city spaces, stimulus plans for mass transit systems, rooftop gardens, and tons of political talk. You can browse articles by city, check out event listings for your area, and in just a week or so you can take part in a live blog about our nation's housing policy. And if you're smart enough to subscribe to the printed magazine, you'll find a treasure of a publication, with well-used stock photos on the cover (how gutsy) and then a beautiful use of two color printing on the inside. In layman's terms, this means that instead of being printed with four colors, like a regular newspaper or magazine, it's printed with two. On the inside pages, all the type is black and any images or art use black and one other color, generally a super-bright stand-out color, that brings the otherwise dulled pages to life. As a designer, I simply eat it up. As a community member, I read every word.

I hope you check out the site, and let me know what you think. And even if you don't, take stock today of your surroundings and say thanks to your stars for putting you in a lucky place. Consider how the things around you have made you who you are.

Moses Hogan

This entry is not for the faint at heart.

Moses Hogan was a contemporary composer, conductor and pianist of our time, best known for his modern spirituals. I'll begin by inviting you to listen to three songs written by him. These are performed by the best eleventh- and twelfth-grade choral singers in the state of Georgia in the year 2000. I participated in All-State as a singer through my middle and high school years, so I was fortunate enough to see this performance first-hand (though not old enough to be in this particular choir). Not only are these songs sung by incredible performers and composed by a legend, the choir here was actually being directed by Moses himself, selected as the clinician for that choir, the lucky dogs.

Have a listen.

Rockin' Jerusalem    I'm Gonna Sing Till the Spirit Moves in My Heart    The Battle of Jericho

I remember singing "Rockin' Jerusalem" in my own high school chorus at home, and how dynamic the crescendo at the end felt to me as I sang as loudly as my lungs would let me, aside 40 or so other students in my choir. I thought that was as loud as loud could ever be, but I was so enraptured by the volume when hearing it performed by nearly 400 students here. The end of "I'm Gonna Sing..." is so chilling, all the repetition and hustling, as if the singer is willing himself to sing and sing and sing until something, anything, finally happens. On a non-musical note, any other day of the week I'd be willing to argue that it's not our insistence that moves the Spirit in our hearts, but it is the whim of the Spirit itself. Moses's arrangement, with the slow, deep Spirit perhaps appearing at the very end, erases that former notion completely as I resolve to implore myself daily to sing and sing and sing. And at the end of "Joshua," the men are shouting and the women are wailing; they're part of Joshua's actual army, we are made to believe. I remember stepping into the rehearsal during this song, catching a glimpse of Moses in action as I waited for my classmate in the choir. Moses was letting students audition for the soprano part at the end, and after all the bravest women had sung before him, he let a few men take a stab at it in their best falsetto, just for kicks. The woman he chose for the part fit perfectly. The choir brought down the house.

Moses passed away just a few years later, at the young age of 45, after dealing with extended illness due to a brain tumor. In that time since seeing him conduct at All-State, the Twin Towers had fallen, I'd graduated high school and put my choral days on pause, and life had moved on. And now I can't recall when or how I'd found out he'd died, but I remembered knowing in 2000 that he was already sick, that this experience, seeing him with these students in Savannah for a weekend, this was something few would experience much longer. I'd sung many spirituals throughout school, and quite honestly they have a great deal to do with my love of music today, and I am lucky enough to have seen them sung by a choir for the master.

I went to a women's conference this past weekend at my church. The speaker, Pam Benton, from St. Louis, was talking to us all about stress and busy-ness and our ways of coping with that. She told us that God is the choreographer of our lives, marking every step of our paths, and that we need not worry whether we are in the right place at the right time, because He has us where it's best for us. But perhaps more beautifully, she reminded us that He is also, and just as importantly, our audience, and that little else matters aside from our dancing the dance He created for us, for Him. We can slip and stumble and forget a step or two, but the dance is still beautiful because we are His, and it is His dance. I would love to hold for an instant the heavy heavy joy, the bursting energy, that Moses must have felt every time he stood before a stage of near strangers to direct the work he had created. For someone who died so young, his life brought hope, beauty, and simple and earnest passion alive in the hearts of so many.