My neighbors are aliens [Cody, UHW staff]

In some recent reading I have been doing on a "Christian perspective" on the US Immigration issues, I have come upon this very crystal-clear passage, and in light of new events in my neighborhood, it takes on equally crystalline implications:

“The alien living with you must be treated as one of your native-born. Love him as yourself, for you were aliens in Egypt. I am the Lord your God (Leviticus 19:34).”

You see, my new neighbors are "aliens." In fact, aliens are transforming my block.

Thanks to one of the top 10 or so snowiest December's on record, I got to meet the newest addition to our little "United Nations" block in south Minneapolis. After the most recent fluffy deluge, I was outside shoveling my walk, and I saw my newest neighbors attempting to clear off their sidewalks. I say "attempting" because they were trying to shovel 6" of snowfall with a spade shovel, which is all they had. And as a native Minnesotan, I am sort of a snow shovel savant , so I had to step in (any seasoned shoveler would have done it). And that is how I met Ali and Hayat, the Somali family that now lives two doors down.

The house they moved into is more than just the new neighbors house. It represents a lot microcosmically about certain 'issues' that are impacting our country:

-The last people to own the house were a Mexican family [issue: immigrants, documented and undocumented most likely].

-They lost the house due to both immigration paperwork issues (the father was deported) AND the resulting inability of the now abandoned mother-of-three to pay her escalating mortgage payment on their adjustable rate mortgage they got talked into by some modern day carpet-bagger [issue: foreclosure epidemic].

-The house sat vacant for over a year. The copper was stolen [issue: globalization. One of the reasons copper prices have escalated is due to the massive amount of copper needed for construction projects in China, India, and South America]. Eventually it was boarded up.

-Then signs of new life! Hammers a-pounding! I went to over one day to see who was building, and try to get a little inside information. The construction crew were all Ecuadorian workers, led by a Mexican guy who had great control of the English language [issue: immigration, again].

-The house was completed, and Ali, Hayat, and their brood moved in [issue: refugee/immigration, again. And in this case, if you know the reason Somali's got to MN in the first place: US Foreign Policy, East African national and ethnic tensions].

So, now I have new neighbors, and I look forward to seeing how our paths will cross again. And if I ever wonder what attitude I am to take concerning these 'aliens' who are my neighbors, I think that passage in Leviticus makes it pretty clear: I am supposed to love them as much as I love myself (which is an awful lot, I must admit) and to treat them as "native-born." Welcome to the neighborhood, Ali and Hayat.

Come Lord Jesus, Be Our Guest [Oakland Avenue house]

“Come Lord Jesus, be our guest and turn this food from damned to blessed." -Thanksgiving Prayer, Latarra age 11

Gratitude, credit, merit, appreciation. So many words exist to express thankfulness. Yet I have a hard time describing the feelings that overtook me last Wednesday. Let me explain. A while back my roommates and I decided to throw a community Thanksgiving meal. It started small; the family downstairs (we live in a UH duplex), maybe a significant other, and ourselves. But I think more than one of us has the spiritual gift of hospitality. For when we tallied the final guest list we realized 25 adults, 4 babies, and a pre-schooler were coming for dinner!! I’ll also note at least 5 people were invited but couldn’t come.

So before all the tryptophan lulls me to sleep, I will indeed count my blessings instead of sheep and share with you all the experience that has left such a big impact on my gut . . . and my soul.

Blessing #1: Generosity of others.
The idea for this meal came when Youthworks, a partner ministry of Urban Homeworks, offered to provide Thanksgiving meals for urban neighbors wanting to invite over those placed in the “have not” category of life.

Blessing #2: Increased generosity of others.
When some folks working at Bethel Seminary got wind of the meal, they chipped in and made homemade pies and side dishes for the feast.

Blessing #3: Beauty
We were very intentional to create a beautiful environment for our guests: white table cloths, candles, fresh cut flowers, and place cards adorned our tables. Beauty spread from the table to the faces of our guests. When you are valued enough to be invited to a beautiful banquet, it says that YOU must be beautiful to have deserved the invite in the first place.

Blessing #4: Diversity
Our guests were a mixed group of Section 8 families, poor high school students, lonely neighbors, and friends.

Blessing #5: Love
There was nothing in the Wassail, but by the end of the night we were jolly enough to clink glasses with our neighbors and embrace one another. Babies were passed around the room, numbers were exchanged between possible mentors and mentees, and a spirit of service and sacrifice led many to stay for hours to help clean. Relationships were formed and strengthened, and God’s Spirit of Love was present.

As I said earlier, words don’t do justice to the true emotion of the night. I remember reflecting on it all as I drove my students home. It was more than a magical Disney feeling, more than just a good time. I know God blesses those who take care of his poor. So maybe the feeling is blessing #6. If so, it’s the best one. It’s been the longest lasting. I don’t have all the right words to describe it, but here are a few: grace, fortitude, peace, hope.

In Transit

Last Friday was the day my thoughts burst. I had walked to the coffee shop after work to get some fresh air. Soon it just got cold so I boarded the bus and the realized I didn't have correct change so when we stopped I told the driver that I'd get off and walk the rest of the way since it wasn't super far. The driver told me to just put in whatever I had, so I turned around to get it all together and a woman (who I guess had overheard) handed me a dollar as she walked past and said, "I guess its your lucky day."
I was really grateful. It felt strange and humbling to be on the receiving end of generosity... there I sat with my $3.61 chai, humbled by the fact that I had both needed and gotten a "hand-out".
That got me thinking about how much I like riding the bus; I enjoy that feeling of being a part of the City and I also feel that I have become one of "them". That led to thinking about the difference in Christ's eyes between me and them, and I started feeling crummy. There is no difference! I feel like somehow its been ingrained in me to see people in classes, like I have left some other-world to stoop down and move to St. Paul and teach them all how to live a better life. "All you need is Jesus" (And middle-class white folk). Like I'm here to save lives or something.
This story hasn't resolved; its still a journey being played out daily, but I think that with this comes a freedom to learn and grow more to be who God is calling me to be here and now.

Thanks be to Honey - [Cody, UHW staff]

I had a blast from the past today, and it rocked me.

I saw a kid (young man) standing down the hall from our office at the Youth Enterprise office door looking for staff (office was closed). I went out to help him find who he was looking for...and then we had one of those unspoken "Hey, I know you" moments of recognition. It took me a minute to place him, because the last time I saw him he was about 10 years old.

"Hey, Cody." He placed me first. I was still playing through my mental list of neighborhood kids I had met over the years, but my "search function" is awfully slow. Then it clicked...it was Johnny.

Johnny was the kid who lived downstairs when I first moved into south Minneapolis as an Urban Neighbor in an Urban Homeworks house. He was one of the first kids that went from being a "statistic" to being a living, breathing example of "a poor black kid." His mother, "Honey," was a hardworking single mom, had 5 kids (all from the same dad) ages 5 to 15. I remember the mornings when she would have to take a taxi at 5:30 AM to the 'burbs for her job. She asked if we (the clueless 4 white guys and 1 not-quite-as-clueless Asian guy) could check in on them in the morning, to make sure they got out the door for school. So we did. Usually Johnny and his little brother, "Q", would be up and at it already at 7 AM, eating their breakfast. Johnny would be ironing he and Q's school uniform. Feeding his brother, ironing his clothes, getting ready to go to elementary school, at age 8. Meanwhile, his mom was 15 miles away, trying to concentrate on her telemarketing job:

"Did the boys get off to school, with food in their tummys?"

"Did they remember to iron their clothes? I don't want my boys looking shabby."

(Because she was so exhausted each night that it sometimes didn't get done).

"Did they turned off that iron so that the house is still standing when they get back from school ? (She'd still be at work).

What a clash of realities. When I was an 8 year old kid, growing up in the sheltered lap of middle-class white America, my mom's biggest existential concerns [God bless her] were whether or not it was safe for me to ride my bike to school because the road shoulder was not ideal in width, or if I'd crack my head open jumping my BMX bike off of homemade jumps (I'll give her that one).

After Johnny and I chit-chatted a bit, caught up on the "what's so-and-so been up to" stuff, we parted ways. Then it hit me. When I got back to my office, I felt a stirring…an excitement, a joy to see Johnny again and even more so because he is involved with something really good (Youth Enterprise's mission is "equipping youth living in urban communities with relevant life and business skills grounded in the hope of Christ"). But entwined with the warm-fuzzies was a deeper hard-to-describe , odd feeling. Not a whole lot different than that stuff that churns around in you when you run into an “ex”...when you know there was/is a shared history or connection in which you both shared some really good stuff. And some really NOT so good stuff. Things did NOT end well with his mother and the family.

Urban Homeworks (we) had to ask her to leave because she had relatives dealing drugs out of the house and would not (or could not most likely) put an end to it. We tried to do everything "right": she was served an eviction notice, with ample time and options. Yet, when it came down to the midnight hour (literally), the last minute of the last hour of her tenancy, our staff had to go to her house with a police escort because Honey had made quite a few threatening statements prior that. And we knew her well enough to know that she was not bluffing. And I don't blame her. She was the mama bear and we were kicking her and her cubs out of their den, regardless of whether or not we were "right" in doing so.

I cut my “urban teeth” on those first few years in that Urban Homeworks house, and I can’t separate it from that family. I hope I didn’t leave too many bite-marks in the process. Those years kicked my butt in many ways…but for the better. And I have a feeling it might have kicked their butts too…but I dread that perhaps it wasn’t for the better. Those years, and that family, lit the fire under the cauldron of my own racial attitudes, white privilege stuff, arrogant classist assumptions, etc. Since then, this white-boy's cauldron has reached the boiling point. The dross is slowly rising to the surface, I am refining. And in many ways I am NOT the same Cody I as an Urban Neighbor. Thanks be to God…and thanks be to Honey.

I got Johnny and Honey's number. I really want to call Honey, to tell her how much I have grown because of her, through her. But I can't help but wonder...was my growth was probably at her expense? And thats why when I think about doing it...the stirring inside begins again.

One Semester of Spanish - A Love Song

Census Bureau researchers found that by 2050 the Latino population of the United States will triple, and one in every four Americans will be Hispanic. Better start practicing your Spanish, my friends.

Check out this link for your first "Spanglish" lesson. It'll make you laugh...

http://www.runawaybox.com/morevideos/music/musicvidpages/muiscspanishlovesong.html

Sins of my Skin [Siri N., Urban Neighbor alum]

I grew up in a small town in southern Iowa, where pigs out numbered the population. I was blessed to be surrounded by hard working, blue collar, family orientated people. Though the reality of my home life went more like an after school special, full of yelling, hitting and confusion. I grew up with few friends but being a poor white kid I was able to feel comfort with the few kids in my school that believed different than the town-wide Catholic God, or those who lived across the track in the projects. And yes, as the stereotypes say most of the kids in our projects were kids of color. But for me the Lord had placed on my heart at a very young age the understanding that Jesus died for everyone no matter the so-economic standing, religious beliefs or color of skin.

As I grew up my heart for the city and my desire to explore new cultures grew. So I moved to Minneapolis to attend college, though the first college I picked I found that the culture I had been brought up in just followed me up to the college. So I still felt a large hunger in my heart to be around ‘All of God’s people’ and that is when the blessing of youth fell into my lap. I was able to volunteer for a youth group in St. Paul full of kids that skin color had no similarities to mine. I began to see that it was in voices of these children's experiences and realities that laid the true work of Christ. At this time I was just a youth worker who loved kids and camp, race was not as apparent. But as time went on and as I experienced my current job, God began to show me the very subtle, destructive divide between the white and blacks in our country, in our state, in our city; actually on every block in North Minneapolis, "Jesus prayed that believers might be brought to complete unity—a process of which we are a part of (John 17:20-23)"

I moved to north Minneapolis about seven months ago and have worked at my current job for almost two years in that time I have been blessed to see the world from the eyes of the beautiful children of North Minneapolis. Their stories entail drug abuse, poverty, physical abuse, hunger, stress and racism. They also entail strength, insight, love, compassion and an understanding of the world many of us will never have. Through their lives God began to show me that "Love for God and others is a continuing ‘debt’ we spend our whole lives paying off (Rom. 13:8)." I cannot fix the sin of those before them but I have begun to see that I can apologize for the sin of my skin. There are chains on the ankles of these children and on mine because of the sins of my forefathers and with the Love of Christ I have begun to see that no amount of ignoring, money or programs will break these chains that are holding us all down.

I grew up a poor white girl in southern Iowa, and I have been able to get a great education, get any job I have needed or wanted and have lived in many unseen privileges. I was able to change my background through an education and a good job, but for the children in the North Minneapolis they will never be able to change the history of oppression and prejudice that has plagued their skin just by getting a better job or nicer things. Their skin color and all that lives with it will follow them every day. That is why I believe as a white American I must acknowledge my privilege, ask forgiveness for the cost it has had on my fellow brothers and sisters and continue to speak the truth through Christ Jesus. I believe that one day through the grace of God the children of the North Side will have a chance to step out into a world that no longer defines them by their race but rather by the image God made them in.

Where have all the old people gone? - [Kristin, Urban Neighbor alum]

I am an Urban Homework Alum, I used to live in the house on 29th St. and Bryant Ave. in North Minneapolis. I got married in July, and my husband Caleb and I moved into one of the Urban Homeworks Cedar 28 condos shortly afterward. Yesterday, we decided to take a walk down Cedar to get to know the area on foot a little better. We ate at a place called Matt's Bar, a fixture in Minneapolis, famous for it's "Juicy Lucy" hamburgers, that have molten hot cheese in the middle. Then, we walked down to a new ice cream shop and each got a scoop.

On the way back we met an 88 year-old Japanese man on the street named Sam. We had seen him when we were on the way down to the ice cream shop, and it concerned us that he was still pacing the same area 45-minutes later. So we went up to him and asked him if he needed any help. (Actually, I'm embarrassed to admit, that we first tried to call 3-1-1, because we assumed the man didn't speak English. We thought it best to have a Minneapolis cop come and address the situation, but 3-1-1 was closed for the evening.) Turns out, Sam didn't need help, the house he was pacing in front of was his, and he was "just passing time". But he was desperate for conversation, and kept us engaged for a good 30 minutes as he leaned on his cane and told us story after story.

He spoke perfect English, even though a few of his words were swallowed when he would accidentally breathe in his gray mustache hairs, and his barren gums would get stuck on them. He was a strange looking man, like a older Mr. Miagi from the Karate Kid - small and thin with long gray hair and a long gray mustache and beard, overgrown eyebrows and nose hairs, no teeth, long, unclipped finger nails, a blue long-sleeved polo shirt with multi-colored stains in the center of his chest, long navy-blue polyester pants, and flannel slippers.

He told us about his time in the military during World War II, and how valuable he had been to the armed forces because he was fluent in Japanese, English and German. He told us of his childhood in Ojai, California, and of his older brothers, who were the first non-white boys to be accepted into the Boy Scouts, who have now long since passed. He told us of how he came to Minnesota, and how his Japanese-ness was seen as such a novelty in the midst of the pure-bred Minnesotan Scandinavians of the 1950s. Many of his facts contradicted each other, but he seemed so desperate for human contact that Caleb and I didn't correct him. We continued to ask him of various ways we might be able to help him - Can we call your family? Do you live alone? - but he just wanted to talk.

It made me sad to think of how many elderly people must be so lonely that all they need is someone who will listen, and how anyone - ANYONE - could take the time to listen, but we rarely do. It made me think about how they say that you can tell the moral character of a society based on how they treat the people least valuable to them - the elderly, the disabled and children. Americans are often are more willing to put money into programs for children because we see them as "our future", and we want to make sure it's bright. But what incentive is there to invest in the elderly? They have already given us their best years. They already fought our wars, developed our programs and businesses, and passed them onto us.

I thought about how special this man must have felt over the course of his lifetime, being Japanese by heritage, but American by birth - one of the first second-generation Asian immigrants to live the American dream. And then I thought about how much better off he would probably be at this stage of life, had he returned to Japan, where every September, every Japanese citizen gets a day off for "Respect the Elderly Day" and there are over 32,000 people over the age of 100.

I worry about Sam, and others like him, who are so vulnerable. There he was, shuffling in front of his house on Cedar Ave. in Minneapolis in his slippers, unaware of any danger that may come to him. How many countless Sams must exist in Minneapolis, and yet, we don't know or hear their stories. What are we, as a nation, doing for people like him? Doesn't he deserve more after how much he did for us? It's a dilemma of Urban Ministry that is rarely addressed by young, optimistic revolutionaries like us, and definitely a dilemma I need to think about more. Where have all the old people gone? How are they being valued and loved? I don't know the answers to these questions, and I should. We all should. How did they get forgotten?