The Day I Spent as a Bag Lady

My feet are cold. Numb. I go inside the kitchen to warm them up a little and peer through the little glass window on the door to see people picking at the bread boxes lined up on the ground outside.

"Bag?" I ask a gentleman wearing three coats and two different gloves, as he attempts to carry two loaves of bread and and bag of bagels. He nods, eagerly, as I snap open a used Acme bag and help him load his food into it. "Thanks, honey" he says and flashes me a smile, showing an array of broken teeth. "No problem", I reply with a returning smile, "Have a good Ash Wednesday".

We are in Kensington, one of the neighborhoods in Philadelphia with a high rate of drug users and homeless. Inside are a group of students helping serve the evening meal, aprons painted with biblical passages tied over their clothes, while some of our staff wash dishes in a humming Hobart, or serve up steaming piles of green beans. Outside the wind whips as people line up around the courtyard, clutching a yellow ticket that assures them a seat in the dining room, as others circle eight boxes of salvaged and donated bread goods sitting on the ground.

I have always bought my bread at the grocery store or from the bakery. I have never had to nit-pick over stale bread donated by stores after they can no longer legally sell it. When I drop food on the floor, I throw it away or toss it to the birds; I have never brushed it off and put it into my pocket.

One lady, pushing a baby stroller that has probably not seen a baby in 15 years claps her hands in joy. "They never have bagels; this is a treat!" she cries, hugging herself in delight as she unearths a pack of six in one of the boxes. Another man comes up to me and points at my forehead, and then at his own, then makes the sign of the cross. He nods his head and grabs a pack of hardened hoagie rolls as he gets in the food line. When he leaves an hour later, he's got his own ashes. He waves frantically at me, and I wave back.

"Hey", another lady tugs on my sleeve. I turn to her, thinking she wants a bag, but instead she points to an older lady sitting on the edge of a raised tree bed. "Yesterday was her birfday" she says. "But she won't tell me how old". She has been sitting there ever since I came out to hand out bags. "Oh?" I reply. "Tell her I said I hope she had a happy birthday". The first lady leaves, goes to the tree bed and says something to the birthday lady. They both look up and smile at me, and I wave in return.

I can't feel my feet. They are cold; numb. I am wearing what I wore to school today. Green tights and ballet flats, which are perfect for a classroom, but less so for standing outside in the cold dusk of early March. Still, I see people coming in wearing ratty sweatshirts and coats not warm enough for this climate. A mother shuffles in wearing bedroom slippers. A young man shuffles up, and I can see his $300 sneakers without scuffs hiding under baggy jeans. His gums are blackened and he is missing teeth as he reaches for a bag. The voice of judgement surges up in me, but I swallow it and give him his bag. He gets in line.

Eventually, the last people trickle through. I rebuff a man who calls me pretty and leans in for a kiss. "A bag, sir", I say and almost thrust the bag upon him. A car across the street has speakers on the roof, and they are blaring music. As I am putting some more bread out, a bright eyed college student from New Hampshire comes up to me and hands me a small flyer. He reads it to me: Come and join us for church and hot cocoa. We'll feed you sandwiches. He grins, a beacon of collegiate social justice and walks back you his group. A girl next to him punches his arm. "She's not homeless, doofus!" she says. He looks back at me, horror etched on his face. I just grin and call out, "Thanks, though!"

Do I look homeless? Does it matter?

Where do I fit in with this group of people? The shiny group of college students so eager to make a difference? I am not that far removed from them. One among a mass of homeless seeking a warm meal on a cold night? How easy to know that it could be that way for so many people.

And again, I say, does it matter?

I went to the soup kitchen on whim after school with some students and staff. I merely tagged along with the campus minister after a meeting at school. I didn't go there to make a difference. Honestly? I was kind of bored, so I went. I wanted to see what my kids did for service. I thought I might be of use.

My feet were cold. They were numb.

But after the doors closed and the gates locked, I climbed into a warm car and went home to a warm house. I took off my cold shoes and warmed my feet by the heater. I made eggs for dinner and ate bread that was fresh from the grocery store and would be eaten long before it could go stale.

I handed out 93 grocery bags. I talked to dozens of people. I helped hand out packaged food to people who made it to the gate too late. I did the time old tradition of a secret hand-off to a woman who needed some of the supply tampons before our high school boys could blink twice.

I heard "God Bless You" too many times to count.

Yes, my feet were cold. My nose was cold, and my hands are a little chapped.

But I cannot think of an Ash Wednesday that I will remember more than this one. I saw the face of Christ in many of the people who passed through St. Francis Inn. And as I go through Lent, I am deciding to be more grateful for what I have because I don't have to wait an hour and a half in line for a hard boiled egg and some mac and cheese. I don't have to wear three coats at once. And I don't have to get my bread from a box lying on the ground.

I sometimes think I don't have a lot. But I do. A homeless outreach center has showed me that in abundance. Next time, I am not going to go because I am bored. Next time, I am going to go because the man who said, "Hey thanks, bag lady!" was genuinely happy to see me. Instead of looking at them with pity, I am going to exude the same amount of appreciation that they have for me. Instead of being thanked for holding out a bag for their bread, I am going to share an appreciation of being allowed to serve them.

God's people. My neighbors. Faces of Christ among the breadlines.

So You're Thinking...

Start a blog theme, and stick with it for a few days, then abandon it like the last few attempts (sorry DSMA and Thanksgiving...). And while I have stated before that I will never be a prolific blogger, and have casually mentioned at least a half dozen times that I am busy, the benefits of online blogging keep coming back to me. I have been frustrated lately. Medically, academically, and socially. I am starting to feel the wear of diabetes on me this school work with working long hours, taking night classes and adjusting to a variety of other spur of the moment issues.

The idea of money has become more of a reality to me lately, and although I still have a year to go until I need to find a place to live on my own; I am realizing that apartments don't pay for themselves and money doesn't save itself either. Not that I am bad- I think I am one of the more financially prudent people I know, but it's also not growing on trees out in the wild.

My idea of what I would have once called a support system is also changing. One of the big reasons I became interested in online blogging was for the diabetes online community, which I have come to realize, can be a hard place to break into. I am at the point where I no longer volunteer myself to be a guest blogger or to be a panelist, because I am not one of the "known" people, or I don't have a famous blog or an eBook, or an Instagram of used test strips. And, that's okay with me. I think my decision to blog about diabetes in cohesion with my life, as I know it, works out best for me. I am not going to work in the medical field. I am not going to publish anything major on how to live with diabetes. I'm not throwing shade on any prominent bloggers in the DOC, don't be mistaken; I just think the focus I have now is more narrow than what I had originally envisioned.

My ideals as a classroom teacher have changed. Now that I am over the excitement of being a first year teacher, I don't have flurries of excitement every time my students do something, and I have become a bit more conscious of WHAT to disclose.

So, what do I want? What am I thinking? Where is this blog headed if I am tired of diabetes and the hooplah of new teachers have worn off? Where am I going if I admit that I haven't been to church in three weeks mainly because I haven't WANTED to go? (Oops)

Another challenge.

What is an Advocate?

“This post is my February entry in the DSMA Blog Carnival.  If you’d like to participate too, you can get all of the information at http://diabetescaf.org/2014/02/february-dsma-blog-carnival-3/“


The question this month, is "What is an Advocate"? 

Hm. Tough question. 

All my life I have considered myself an advocate for various things. When I was a freshmen in high school, it was for animals and I claimed vegetarianism for a lifestyle for the next five years. College and bacon got involved then. 

When I was a sophomore in high school, I was diagnosed with t1 diabetes, and I became an advocate for finding the cure. I still advocate for that. 

When I was in college, I stumbled upon social justice. And fell in love. I advocated for the children of Ecuador and Norristown. I graduated and taught in Arizona and advocated for the Navajo students I taught. I went back to school and advocated for the inner city students I now work with.

So, yeah, I guess you would say I am an advocate. But how to describe one? Ah, well, that one is harder. It depends. That sounds like a cop-out answer, but I promise it's not. 

I see advocates march on Washington, pick up microphones and shout their ideals. Our history books tell us of advocates who risked their lives and their freedom to speak for others. We are coming off of a month that celebrates some of the individuals who made so many rights in America possible for many people. I see advocates who hit facebook and twitter and spread inspiration like a virtual wildfire. I see blogs dedicated to causes, and I see people worldwide united under the same cause. I see and hear the news. I see signs posted and I hear songs written. 

I know this blog is supposed to be about diabetes, so here is advocacy from my perspective:

Advocacy is the people who never gave up on me when I was struggling in my low points of diabetes. Advocacy is the girl at my lunch table who threw her tater tots at the other girl who called me a needle freak in high school. Advocacy is my 5 year nephew studiously watching me prep my materials so he knows what to do in case I have an emergency. Advocacy is thousands of people lacing up sneakers and walking across America to support research to finding a cure, and the random lady who puts her change in the collection jar at the local WaWa and buys a paper sneaker for the window. 


Advocacy is refusing to be quiet, to sit down and shut up, until a cure is found. 

No Limitations

The hot, steamy air of Ecuador hit us like a wet towel as we stepped out of the small airport in Guayaquil, Ecuador. January of my senior year in college found me embarking on a life-changing mission trip called “Rostro de Cristo”, located outside of a major export city in South America. The week I spent with classmates and residents of a small town called Duran created memories that I will never forget. The people, the places, the food- they all hold a special place in my heart that can not be replaced with anything found in this material world. However, the struggle to get to that point in my life was not easy, and is something that I reflect back on from time to time to see how far I have really come.

I am sitting in the guidance counselor’s office my senior year of high school, bright eyed about the possibilities of college that are still fresh in my mind after weekend visits. My SATs are in the bag, and I made puppy eyes at my dad until he paid the application fees to my top choices. The counselor sighs and pushes her glasses up onto her head. “Are you sure you want to go to college?” she asks me, brow arched. “It will be difficult with your limitations, you know.” My limitation, as she likes to call it, is diabetes. I don’t produce insulin and have to take daily shots in order to regulate my blood sugars. I am in three AP classes, I am a varsity athlete on the track and field team, and I am nationally ranked in Speech and Debate, but according to her, I am limited.

“Well-”, I hesitate, unsure of how to respond to her question. Am I sure? Yes, I am absolutely sure that I am supposed to go to college, but I start to feel a gnawing monster in my belly, questioning my ability to succeed. Later that night, I am at home, helping my mom fold laundry in the living room. “What would you think if I just went to community college for awhile and figured it out?” I asked her as I searched fruitlessly for my matching sock. She looks at me, a confused expression etched across her face. My mother, who left school to start a family, and didn’t go back in order to raise us. “What do you mean, figure it out?” I am sure she is thinking of the months of flooded mailboxes, the countless trips to visit schools, and my test anxiety that rubbed off on the rest of the family. I tell her about my meeting with the guidance counselor, and watch her face change from confusion to anger. I am glad my mom is by my side for this battle, because I have a feeling it will turn into full on war.

I am talking to the admissions counselor at the school I really want to go to, and all I am missing is the official transcript from my high school. I promise to have it in the mail the next day, and take a stamped envelope with my forms to the guidance office. Two weeks later, I receive a rejection letter, and I call the admissions counselor in tears. “You promised!” I sobbed into the phone, inconsolate about what I perceived to be my dream school. Soothing me over the phone, she pulls up my file, and tells me that they never received my official transcript from school. I never saw anger in color until that afternoon. I called my high school and demanded answers. I sat for hours in the guidance suite, and I brought a ferocious mama bear with me. We couldn’t prove anything, and my counselor’s simpering smile totally and utterly defeated me.

I was burning. I knew that I could not  lie down and accept defeat because then my “limitation” would win. I revamped my college efforts, and eventually accepted a track scholarship to Cabrini College, where I spent four magnificent years growing into a woman that I can be proud of. After the track team was cut for budgetary reasons, I focused on social justice and become involved in one of the most active socially just colleges in the country. My freshmen year, I started insulin pump therapy, which gave me an entirely new outlook on living with diabetes and I threw myself into the service of others.

As I sat on the concrete ground of a school yard in Ecuador, with a child on each knee, I thought about how lucky I was to have had such a woman in my life. The devastation of what happened in high school propelled me to do my best and seek out my interests. As Josue fingered the tubing coming out of my pocket, I gently explained to him in broken Spanish what it was. He hugged me tight, taking my breath away, and stood at the gate each day to hug me as we came in to the school. After coming back to the States, the fire that had been lit for helping others had become a bonfire of passion, and I began filling out applications for year long service opportunities.

I graduated in 2012 with two bachelor degrees, and my teaching certification along with high honors and accolades from the honors college. I was accepted by the Mercy Volunteer Corps and was missioned to the Navajo Nation Indian Reservation in rural Arizona. I spent the year after graduation teaching high school U.S. Government, Psychology, and working as a part time secretary.Now, I am in grad school full time and working in a high school in North Philadelphia as I study to become a Reading Specialist.

I still have diabetes, and unless science has a breakthrough, I will always have diabetes. What I don’t have are limitations. My ability to serve others and to teach- those are something that diabetes cannot take away from me. They are something an outdated counselor cannot take away from. My biggest “limitation” was not my endocrine system, it was my inability to believe in myself. Once I overcame that fear, I realized that there was nothing that could stop me from reaching for the stars.

From the streets of Ecuador, to the hogans of the Navajo Nation, to my cluttered classroom in Philadelphia, there is nothing that can limit me. Have insulin pump; will travel.    

The house is still standing...

I live in a house with ten other teachers, so you could say we're a pretty educated bunch.

Then, I walk into the kitchen and see this, and laugh for about a solid five minutes.

I am not sure if that's how it should be done, but it's pretty funny. I love taco night.