Where I Came From: Where we are Going Now Samantha McGrew Marist College World Views and Values I’ve always been one to help, but I honestly had no idea what I was going to do for my praxis project. I wanted to be creative. I wanted to be different, and I wanted to help in an unconventional way, by doing something that very few people do. But for weeks now I’ve been lost in indecision, suffocated by papers and group assignments, exhausted by my job. And as I thought about how I could make a difference in the world, I started to realize that everything I’m complaining about is something that a homeless person would celebrate. Or someone who wants to go to college but can’t. Or someone who is desperate to find a job when there are none out there. Then I remembered I am from one of the poorest cities in New York and all the reasons I hated it there were the same reasons why I had to be there to volunteer. The junkies shivering in the cold, the abandoned buildings and aimless teenagers with absolutely nothing better to do, all telling me I am nothing like that. But whispering in their entanglements with poverty was the same call for social justice that still makes my fists clinch in frustration. Maybe we are not all alike, maybe I have more ambition. Or maybe I just don’t understand how we all ended up where we are. But in all honesty, as much distaste as I have for my neighbors in Newburgh, I know we are still fighting the same struggle and we are both just as cold in this late autumn chill. So venturing to Johnson, I finally noticed the Newburgh Ministry. It is a nondescript building with no fancy signs, no wide open doors gesturing everyone in, no prominent position on the street. But once inside, I was greeted by the endlessly welcoming staff of Sisters of the Presentation, and especially Ms. Norma Carney. You may ask, “Who is this woman, what is so special about her?” and I will tell you. She is ideal, simply and truly. Sister Norma, as the people who frequent the Newburgh Ministry will profess, is a woman of strong faith. It is how she has always lived her life and it is from the doctrines of the Catholic Church that she understands her role as an advocate in the struggling Newburgh downtown area. Taught at a Catholic school with teachers who were a part of the Sisters of Presentation congregation, she identified with the way her teachers lived their life. To these women, their main mission was to come together to serve disadvantaged groups of people selflessly and to live a simple life while advocating for social justice. She became a sister at the age of seventeen and in her words, “[her] congregation calls us to work for human dignity, peace, justice and the needs of the disadvantaged,” (Newburgh Ministry website). Combining a value for selfless service with her morals of faith, Sister Norma has used her life to face the social problems of struggling communities with concern and devotion. She admits that, although she has no regrets about her life decisions, it is not always easy to dedicate herself to helping others. Sister Norma exemplifies her dedication to easing suffering by accepting a paltry eight hundred dollars per month as compensation for working in the Ministry. She is one of only a few certified social workers in an organization that takes its directives from the Church, and could quite possibly be making much more at another agency. However, as a woman of faith, she felt that her calling was here in Newburgh, among its disillusioned citizens, aided by her brothers and sisters in Christ to ease their suffering. Working in a simple building in the heart of downtown Newburgh, a newcomer might be frightened by their surroundings, but once inside the atmosphere is bright and warmhearted with large spaces for children and adults alike to relax. Sister Norma, as an older woman, has an easy but tired smile, and she carries her burdens with the intent of a woman fulfilled. Upon entering this place that can only be described as an oasis in the midst of a freezing wasteland, I felt myself smiling with giddy surprise. I had never heard of the place before I started at Marist, and although I only live down the street, I had honestly never noticed the building as anything more than a regular, dilapidated Newburgh dwelling. I didn’t know anyone who went there and I actually thought it must have been a church. It is run by nuns and funded privately by religious organizations, but other than calling it the Newburgh Ministry, there is nothing inside that suggests any kind of religious affiliation. The air is clear, the room bright and cheerful. There are chairs galore, two phones, a thrift store, and day care area full of toys and a vibrantly colored rug. From the moment I stepped inside, I knew I would be back. Time doesn’t always allow one to do everything one might want to do, but just watching the people enjoying the warmth, relaxing and appreciating a break from the cold, I knew I could be comfortable here. I thought it might smell bad. I was wrong. I thought it might be dirty. I was wrong. I thought it would be full of grungy homeless people who reeked of liquor. I was wrong. In fact, a few good friends of mine were there, and they helped me pull up a chair and watch while they played a rousing game of dominoes. I didn’t know a game could get that serious, but it did. People were clamoring to play and this became the center of everyone’s attention. Yelling all around, shouts of cheating and missed turns. But no one got violent. In fact, when someone seemed ready to get physical, everyone else stood up and reminded him that it would not be tolerated. I knew how much everyone appreciated this little known treasure, and everyone knew everyone else. I couldn’t help but smile as I helped incoming people to make calls. I helped a young man find a place that would accept Medicaid to update his eyeglass prescription. I listened as a young mother struggled with Central Hudson to get the lights turned on in her new apartment. I listened to a delightful and politically conscious young man talk about his plans to bring several people to see the president in Washington D.C. I delved deeper into the mind of Sister Norma, a woman whom I will always admire, and listened to the quiet passion she has for her work, the innate compassion and caring she carries into everything she does, and the resolute determination she has to be there for the struggling residents of Newburgh’s downtown. She explained to me that one of the biggest problems affecting the poor in my hometown is the lack of affordable housing. This is nothing to say about the plethora of available and abandoned buildings. The problem lies in the intent of the building owners to move in middle income tenants as opposed to providing low income housing to the people who need it the most. She told me she was working to develop the upstairs into an overnight shelter, and what people need more than anything is a decent place to live. She shared with me that many of the landlords in the area, often out of towners who don’t even know what their tenants look like, either charge exorbitant rates for an average dwelling or affordable rates for a room that can only be described as a closet. They don’t keep the buildings up or monitor them to make sure there is not illegal activity going on, and often the doors don’t even lock, leaving tenants vulnerable to robbery or harm. I remember reading a listing in the classified section of the Times Herald Record about a three bedroom apartment for 700 dollars per month. It was located on one of the most drug riddled streets in Newburgh. I crossed it out immediately. And I wonder what this says about me. But then I remember the story not too long ago about the young man found dead in his apartment on the same street, who had been left there for days. And then I remember that every time I look in the classified section, the same listing is still there. It makes me wonder that such a “bargain” is still on the market. Maybe not everyone who is poor is ok with being surrounded by drugs and violence. And I know that if the apartment ever gets rented out, it will either be by a drug dealer or someone who knows nothing about the area. I immediately (and always have) felt for these people who played dominoes with such passion, who just wanted to be warm and yet refuse to give up their dignity by living in a dangerous environment. I realize that anyone is welcome here; there is no extent of poverty that you have to reach before they will take you in. Rather, it can be seen as a community center that doesn’t leave you in the cold, no matter what. There is absolutely no judgment; black, white, young, and old got along and share with each other as brothers and sisters. And I walk away mentally rejuvenated, feeling as if I had finally learned something about my hometown that I had never known before. I had assumed everyone on the streets was lazy and addicted to drugs. And yes, many of them are. But so many are just struggling, often with mental illness [(20‐25% of the homeless population suffer from severe depression and 5‐15% suffer from schizophrenia) Toro, 2007] and those with a weakness for drink and drugs are no worse than me, with a weakness for painkillers in moments of stress. From my experience at the Newburgh Ministry, I regained my confidence in the people of this small town, and I realized that in our own little ways, we were working together to survive. The concept is scary to some but it is all too real to many. Survival is not a goal that people consciously carry around with them. It is more of a given, with an emphasis on what someone WANTS. For so many in Newburgh, getting to a level where wants can even be considered, where NEEDS are no longer an issue and one has time and money to spend on non essential things, is a lifelong goal. Perspective is a very powerful influence. As much as I claim to know about Newburgh, I had counted my neighbors out, didn’t see that they wanted better for themselves and couldn’t for reasons outside of their control. Being there reminded me of the other side of the wealth game, the side we were both trying desperately to reach. We are not so different, we are fighting many of the same battles, and together we can do much more.
And I Sat There
I wondered
What was my place
Could I fit in
Did I want to
Maybe not
Maybe conceit
Got in the way
Of being there
And I sat there
I wondered
How could I help
Did I want to help
Why was I here
The sisters took me
Let me in from the cold
I was shivering too
Just like Ben, and Dave, and Julio
And Rachel with her son
And Keisha with her daughter
We all sat there
Warm inside
And I wondered
Did I fit in
Would could I do
Here in a place so bright
With tired
Smiling
Faces
All around me
And I sat there
Smiling back
Glad to be home
Because of time constraints and early closing hours for the Newburgh Ministry (and a desire to get involved in more than one organization) I looked next to the NAACP. My sisters Claudia and Andrea had been a part of the youth council here in Newburgh while they were in high school. I had always heard of the organization, but had never really taken the time to think about its relevance in today’s society. All of that went out the window when I met Ms. Nola Melvin‐
McDoe. A relentlessly honest and caring person, she sat down with me and together we spent several hours talking about her “babies” in the youth council, their shortcomings and potential. We talked about raising hundreds of dollars from the sale of homemade pies (yes the woman is a great cook!), about the national conventions that she tries to go to every year, about my being a co advisor with her, helping to inspire the kids to be more active in their community. She wants me to be a leader for them, to see them on their level, taking their hand and guiding them to the next. I met some of them, talked at length about their hopes for the future and college plans. They expressed their joy at being witness to the history of Barack Obama, and their disdain for the state of their hometown. We connected, we found each other in the midst of uncaring and turmoil, and together we hammered out plans for the upcoming year. I have become a member of the NAACP, an organization that strives for civil justice for everyone, black or white. I am excited about attending more meetings, becoming a strong presence in these teenagers’ lives, and working together with them to accomplish great things in Newburgh, maybe even around the world. Our first goal is to increase our membership by one hundred people next year, and to increase our presence on college campuses. I’m also hoping to make the organization my junior internship experience next semester. As excited as I have become about all the things I hope to do with the NAACP next year, I still wonder why I never thought to join them before. Perhaps it’s because the colored persons part bothers me. Maybe because I’m still hoping to find out all the different ways that the organizations strives for equality. Either way, I know in my heart that it will make a difference in my life because I will have a strong group of people to help me make a difference in the lives of others. People often assume racism is dead. They forget that radio hosts such as Don Imus and actors like “Kramer” from Seinfeld fame have both spewed racial hatred in the not too distant past. They forget that most disadvantaged and at risk youth are minorities, growing up in neglected areas because the mainstream largely ignores them. They forget that hair relaxers still sell very well, as do bleaching creams. Everyone is so used to it; they don’t even see it anymore. Or maybe our parents were so happy with the civil rights movement of the sixties, the impact of Martin Luther King Jr. and his non violent civil disobedience, the boycotts and marches, that everyone thinks the work is done. But I am still a rare brown face here at Marist. And colleges across the country are being condemned for having pitiful rates of low socioeconomic status students in their ranks. Maybe racism is not as bad as it once was. Maybe it will get better with time. But in the words of Martin, “freedom is never voluntarily given by the oppressor; it must be demanded by the oppressed,” (3). No, I am not worried a lynch mob will chase me down and leave me dangling lifeless from an old tree. And I would be a little surprised if I found a burning cross in front of my door. The “whites only” signs are gone. But they have been replaced by something more dangerous. A subtle racism, a general belief in our culture that this is the best we can do, we have done all we can, and the masses of marginalized and oppressed people have finally found the freedom they deserve. But every day I am reminded of my skin color, and as proud as I am of this lovely golden glow, I am NOT FREE. I am stuck in the muck of a forgotten town, relegated to insignificance.
Scholars note that what the majority race doesn’t realize is how much of their privilege is derived from the color of their skin. Many people understandably want to avoid conflict and confrontation, or deny the fact that they have an unfair advantage. Researcher Darren E. Lund argues the importance of teachers’ discussion of our country’s full history, including institutions of racism, in our efforts to fully empower our children for the future. Taken out of context, the current plight of many of this country’s minority groups would appear to be natural, right, normal, and ok. But that would be a gross distortion of the truth, and our children need to know, before they are influenced by the subtle racism of our culture; before they begin to assume they don’t see many powerful black people because black people are not supposed to have any power; before little black children start to internalize the messages they get every day about their unacceptability in the mainstream; children need to know. This is not sex education, and we are not trying to tell five year olds about the birds and the bees. But they should know why so many black people are poor and so many white people are not. Our children should know why people like Geoffrey Canada is so angry about the state of many communities in New York City as armed and desperate black men wage wars against each other. They should know that Martin was not in jail because he did something bad, but because he stood up for himself and millions of people around the country. We owe this to them, and we owe it to ourselves. We are in an era where there is a black family going into the White House. The time we are in right now is momentous, unbelievable even to me. And yet I worry that someone will be mad enough to kill him, simply because of the color of his skin. Maybe there are no more lynch mobs. But around every corner, pressing in with each denial, each off color joke, each ignored face in the urban ghetto, is the still lingering effects of racism. I see it in my hometown, in the tired faces of the Newburgh Ministry’s inhabitants. And then I look into the hopeful eyes of the young people coming, ready to act. And I’m proud of America. I’m proud we have not given up the good fight, and I believe if we work together, if we are honest about the issues pressing the world today and refuse to give in to frustration or yield to a false sense of comfort, we can fulfill our civic duty to finally make this country what the founding fathers have always proclaimed it to be. I’m sorry if I hurt you Tears may fall forgive me I love you I trust you But you don’t know me You don’t see what the world thinks of me You get the idea But how could you know In my head The struggle to remain true In the face of adversity To myself To my beauty To my talents and ambitions I’m sorry if I hurt you It wasn’t my intent I am ferocious In my passion My outlet is here You have given it to me And I cherish it As I hope you will see I love you I trust you But you don’t know me Yet References: King Jr., M. (1963). Letter from Birmingham Jail. [Electronic version]. Lund, D. (2006). Rocking the racism boat: School‐based activists speak out on denial and
avoidance. [Electronic version]. Race, Ethnicity, and Education, 9, 203‐221. Toro, P. (2007). Toward and international understanding of homelessness. [Electronic
version]. Journal of Social Issues, 63, 461‐481.