Dead Babies on Christmas: Xmas Beyond Biblicism

Murdered infants and toddlers don't exactly make many Hallmark Christmas greetings. But according to the Christmas story in Matthew, Herod "slew all the children in Bethlehem, and in all the coasts thereof, from two years old and under" (Matt. 2:16). Those of us familiar with the tale know that an angel warned the holy family to flee to Egypt in order to avoid this atrocity (an atrocity whose historicity is in question for a number of reasons). Without salvation from this decree of baby homicide, Jesus would have died long before the cross. Since we know the end of the story, we can read this part of the story understanding why God saved Jesus.

But even in spite of the story's ending, why didn't God save the other children? Surely these babies deserved deliverance from death. A child does not need to be the Messiah in order to deserve Physical salvation. After all, isn't that a large part of what the gospel story is about? Before Jesus died for the sins of the world, babies died for him, died to placate Herod's megalomania. God chose God's only son over these innocent children in order that Jesus could sacrifice himself for such children. 

This is a problem for the Christmas story as it is read in popular US culture, but not for Christmas itself. Christmas should not be about certain interpretations of the Bible, viz., attempts to read the Bible as nothing other than literal and historically accurate and attempts to fit the Bible into a sort of positive hits radio station. Christmas is neither Lee Strobel's "The Case for Christmas" or the so-called holiday spirit. By remembering this story of infanticide, I am challenged to think about the underside of my own blessings. Who pays for my gifts in non-monetary ways? Who is forgotten in the media-created idea of "the war on Christmas." What happens to those in need after the generosity of the holiday spirit fades into memories of Christmas past? 

A Tale of Two Prejudices

Below, I tell two stories. One short, the other long. Throughout, I try to expose certain prejudices while allowing for different interpretations of these stories. When I discussed these stories with my partner, she was skeptical about the sexism I saw in one, and, in the other, she told me the story could easily be in a "When God Winks" book if i told it differently. I want these possibilities that undercut my own interpretation, because these counter possibilities expose how our own intentions and self-interpretations are not the final story of our lives. Our self-understanding and self-projection of identity equals neither who we are or how we impact the world around us.

I believe a first step in overcoming a problem is acknowledging it. I tell these stories to acknowledge problems in myself and in the privilege inherent in men, white people, and the educated in the US. These are my problems, but not only my problems, and I need different people to complete not only who I am, but who I want to be and who I should be. Let me repeat, I need non-white, non-male, uneducated, non-US citizens in order to be the best me I can be. One way I need them, is to see how they see me and make myself better through their gaze.

The stories below are my attempt at  recognizing those gazes.

====

When I conduct a phone interview, I open, "Hi, is this so-and-so?" Today my first question was, "May I speak with so-and-so?" The reason for the difference is sexism. To explain, let me tell you about my day today. It is Monday, August 18, 2014, and I'm a white, heterosexual male in the US.

My daily commute is a mile walk, two trains (Chicago Transit Authority 'L' lines Brown & Green), and another mile walk. I am a Student Office Assistant in a department that specializes in technology and science. The specifics of what "we" do is largely beyond me.

On my second walk this morning, I notice a man standing behind a water fountain. He has the fountain on, but he does not seem to be doing anything with it like drinking or washing. The closer I get, the less I look at the him, so as not to stare.

He speaks to me as I near him, so I respond. As I continue past, he continues speaking, so I turn to him, because all people deserve respect. The water fountain is now off.

I sigh on the inside, because I figure he is going to ask me for money. He tells me he appreciates how I look at him. He says this as he introduces his pitch. He tells me a lot of U Chicago students are nice people who look at black people like human beings, not black beings. I also look at him like he is a panhandler, which he either leaves unmentioned or unnoticed as he stumbles hurriedly to the money part.

He needs diapers for his granddaughter. He sees my wedding band and asks if I am married, if I have kids. "How long have you been married?" He sees my face change to pride and love as we speak about my partner briefly.

"I was just on my knees praying," he says as he beckons west towards areas known as "rough." Chicagolanders have wide eyes when they hear I walk to and from the Garfield Green Line station to campus. I tell job candidates that the areas surrounding Hyde Park are known as "sketch," and people generally don't recommend going West of campus, not even to Washington Park that borders the campus. (Recently the park was adjacent to an early afternoon incident. Two teenagers were shot during the Bud Billiken parade, one in the arm, the other in the hand. The second teen also had his keister grazed by a bullet.)

"I was just on my knees, [...] and I don't know if you're an angel."

If his story is true, I wonder, then I don't completely understand why he thinks I am an angel. If God didn't help him before now, why now? Why a chubby white man in jeans and a skinny knit tie? I make a mental note to tell him I am not an angel. His theology could be right in some places where mine is not, but I am no angel. He is wrong on that point.

$13.88 is how much the diapers supposedly cost. I don't have kids, so I don't know if that is right. A specific price makes panhandlers seem more truthful. Before he mentioned the price, from the moment I turned to listen to him, I planned to give him the three dollar-bills in my wallet. Now I plan to give him the other bill in my wallet; it's a $20.

I don't know anything about the veracity of his story, but I'm not completely naïve. Rather, I strive to be giving, compassionate, and hopeful, even if it means losing that $20 that was supposed to be saved for laundry. That $20 that I briefly lifted from my wallet earlier this morning, thinking I should leave it in the house or give it to my partner, because, otherwise I would give it away when asked. (I forgot about this moment until the moment I wrote this reflection on my commute home, riding the Brown Line towards Kimball.) I don't know why I put the bill back in my wallet this morning. God? An angel? I would put my money on a coincidence. If God is going to send anything, I would imagine God would send that man's granddaughter more than one package of diapers. But I don't even understand what the scientists and programmers in my office do, so I won't claim to know how the universe "exists" and "operates" (both of these words in scare quotes are metaphors when applied to things that are simultaneously our existence and the ground of our existence, both physical and metaphysical).

He finally asks me if I can get him the diapers. I hand him the $20, and he showers me with more flattery. He then mentions something about needing a bus fare. Did he see the bills remaining in my wallet? Was he really asking for more money after I handed him $6.12 more than he claimed he needed? I told him he had what he needed in the $20, and that he could do what he wanted with it. He thanked me, saying he just wanted to make sure. Make sure of what? Did he think I expected him to bring me change?

"If anyone tries to bother you or your wife, I'll be the first one to come help."

"Let's hope it never comes to that, but thanks, [name omitted]. And, listen man, I'm no angel!"

I head off to work, and he continues speaking. I'm late now, so I walk away as I turn my head to return pleasantries.

===

Five minutes past 1 PM CST, I make a phone call to someone who wants to be a bioinformatician in the office in which I work. I have never seen this name before, so I hope I don't say it too wrong, assuming there are levels of wrongness.

"Hello?"

"Hello, may I speak with [mispronounced name omitted]?"

"Yes, this is she."

I apologize for my tardiness, and give her my spiel, but my mind is on how I opened the phone call. My heart dropped the moment she identified herself as the person with whom I wanted to speak. I expected a man's voice. I expected a man's voice so much, that I could not imagine I was speaking with the applicant when I heard a voice in the soprano register. I really thought I was speaking with the man's mother, sister, or female partner.

I was sexist. I am sexist. I am a privileged inheritor of systemic misogyny with an ignorance of "non-white" names. The first step to fighting the problem and spending out the inheritance? Acknowledgement. If only more white men in the US (especially the heteronormative) would stop scoffing at the existence of sexism, racism, heteronormative oppression and start fighting the existence of these evils. If only.

===

My commute home goes alongside U Chicago's sports fields, behind the DuSable Museum of African American History, enters Washington Park, and then continues for two blocks along 55th St/Garfield to get on the Green Line. Just as I leave the building and walk towards the soccer field, I try to remember the name of the man with my $20. Was it biblical? No. It shared a name with a street I pass on my commute. I remember, and my mind drifts to other things.

Before I reach the tennis courts at the western boundary of campus--not even 5 minutes after recalling his name--I see the man with my $20 who shares a name with a street I pass. I was going to say hello, make sure he knew I remembered his name, and keep walking. I'm an introvert, and I am always in a hurry to get home for dinner and my partner.

I say hello, and he recognizes me. Of course he recognizes me, I handed him a $20 bill, and I'm wearing a bright bright shirt and a horizontally striped knit tie. I stand out a little. As I awkwardly stand listening to him, I adjust my tie, and he comments on it. He is observant. This morning he noticed my ring as I fidgeted with my coffee cup, passing it from hand to hand. If he is a regular panhandler, he is good at it. However, I would prefer a short story with little talk about me. Don't flatter me, just ask me for the money. Whether a sucker or generous, I'm probably going to give it if I have it. Of course, he doesn't know that about me.

He thanks me for earlier, and he tells me about his sister, granddaughter, and, I think, wife. This morning he told me he wished he had gotten married, at least I thought he had. I didn't fully listen to or understand everything he said in the morning or afternoon. It doesn't matter if his story is completely or partially true or false. He said someone cried when he told them that a white man gave him that money.

This, too, leads to a supplication. I hadn't realized this conversation could have been a pitch. Maybe he remembered the greens peaking out of my wallet this morning after I handed him a $20: the last $3 in my wallet. He was going to get something to eat. If he was already on his way, why did he need my $3? But the money was out of my wallet and transferring hands before I gave a second thought. I send a text to my partner immediately after this chance meeting, telling her I'm soft.

I finally make sure he knows I remember his name, and he smiles when I do. He has a jacket and a bag in his right hand, so, instead of shaking, he presents his fist, and our knuckles meet. He tells me that if I ever need anything or anyone is messing with me, then I should  tell him. (... as if I would know how to find him. I've walked that same path for a year and never seen him until today, when I saw him twice, the man with my $23 who shares a name with a street I pass daily.)

And so we part. I leave without any cash in my wallet; he leaves with $3 more of my dollars, dollars from either a sucker, a man striving towards compassion, or someone somewhere in between. Whatever I am, I'm no angel. Angels don't give away each of the twenty-three dollars in their wallet the same day they expect a qualified job applicant to be a man based on her qualifications and decent application materials. Angels don't wonder if they'll soon see the man with my $23 who shares a nam with a street I pass because the man thinks he found a soft target. Angels don't send text messages to their partners stating they shouldn't be allowed to carry their money very often because of how often he gives it away.

Angels give more than $23, too. Right? Oh God how I wish they would. Amen?

===

*Update: As of today, August 31, 2014, I have yet to see the man again or carry money in my wallet on my commute.

An Extra 65¢

Last night, a guy on the street asked me for 35¢ as I was walking to my car. I hardly ever have change on me, so I gave him a dollar.

I hesitated before giving him the dollar. It wasn't so much because I wondered about whether it was moral or for the greater good, but rather because I thought he might want the change to make a phone call. What good is a bill when you need change for the pay phone?

I gave him the dollar as I wondered how much pay phones cost these days and where the closest one would be. I figure he had been collecting money throughout the day and only needed 35 more cents for whatever it was he wanted to purchase--food, drink, or otherwise. Or maybe he finds it is easier to get money when you ask for a small, specific amount.

He took the dollar and said, in valediction, "God bless you."

God bless me? If God is in the business of honoring the blessings we give, then that man should have blessed himself. I can't imagine he was blessed by my dollar. Regardless of his intents for the money--need or luxury--it wasn't the sort of generosity or aid to do him any true good. My "good deed" was neither God nor I blessing that man. I made a near-meaningless act and he returned it with a formulaic expression that encourages many people to continue "giving." 

His blessing was likely more out of manners and decorum than any true desire. It was economic: I give him something and he gives me something in return: a blessing for a dollar. "God bless you" is a turn of phrase these days, but it gave me pause to think.

I believe in giving more than I believe in questioning the intentions of those who ask. It isn't my job to judge. But I always fear I might give to fight guilt and to diminish the sense of a greater responsibility. Or to create a façade of a holy ethic and a persona that I am Godly, Christ-ly, and Love-ly (others might prefer to use other terms here, Allah-like, Buddha-like, or a purveyor of great karma).

I gave a $1. That's 65¢ more than he asked for. That's not all I give. I give money to Compassion International to support a child through an organization that I don't support ideologically/theologically. I allow my employer to take a percentage of my paycheck for its benevolent fund. I recycle. I buy fairly traded products. I support local agriculture and businesses. Sometimes.

God bless me? Why? Because of an extra 65¢? Because I mute the voices of the oppressed by throwing money in their general direction when I could be giving them me?

I recently heard a well-known speaker say that if faith does not cost us something, then it is nothing. Only much later could I respond: if faith does not cost us everything, it is nothing. (Peter Rollins, How (Not) To Speak of God)

I disrespect myself, my faith, my political stances--everything I believe and am--as well as those around me when I only give money, buy organic, or shop at Whole Foods. An extra 65¢ is not enough.

God bless America, God bless me, and God bless us, every one.

What's the Difference? College Students, Homeless People, & Me

I had dinner with last night. At some point, she told some stories about working with people who worked at her father's restaurant. He would hire women on work release (a noble act to help society). One statement stuck out to me: "I was talking to this woman who was my age, but with two kids, another one on the way, and on work release."

I started thinking about The Beacon, the homeless shelter at which I worked and volunteered once. I remember checking in a high school senior whose parents kicked him out to teach him lesson.

I started thinking about how similar my current job is to my job working at the homeless shelter:

Oversee check in/out of clients
Develop helping relationships
Make proper referrals
Listen
Respond to drugs, alcohol, drunkenness, violence, theft, sneaking in/out, manipulation, threats, favors, suicide attempts, suicidal ideation, suicide, self-cutting, interpersonal conflict, depression, mental illness, social awkwardness, and gossip, among other things
Promote and enforce policies
Confront policy violations

There are a number of differences as well, but the major one is the most obvious: the clientele. That delineation is not age, because, as already stated, the age of men at the homeless shelter dipped as low as 18. And we all know children, too, are homeless.

Family help isn't the main difference either. I have college students who are on their own and I knew men at the shelter who visited with family and received things from them often.

A permanent home doesn't really put a name to the difference. A residence hall is about as permanent a home as a homeless shelter. Your time in both of them is limited somehow. At the shelter, you could generally only stay 90 days before having to leave for a two week period. After that absence, you could stay for 60 days. And then 30 days. In the residence hall, you leave in the summer and after you graduate. Even the men in the homeless shelter had somewhere to go during their absence, be it a tent, a friend's home, a family member's couch, or an abandoned building nobody knew he was sleeping in.

Economic status could be the line separating the two groups. Then again, they both receive money for which they don't work, be that money from the government in the form of food stamps or from family members in the form of gifts and allowances. Both are also in debt, be that debt from a foreclosure or from accruing student loans.

A college student isn't all that different from a person staying the night in a homeless shelter.

I'm not all that different from a college student or a person staying the night in a homeless shelter.

I have student loan debt. I have my addictions. I have my vices. I am a slave to many passions, desires, oppressions, and economic and social mores. I earn some things and feel entitled to others. I mishandle interpersonal conflict. I demand change, completely ignoring the words of those more knowledgeable and experienced, even when they tell me the lack of change is for a good reason.

I can keep highlighting the différance, keep pointing how the differences are not necessarily meaningless, but rather unspeakable, and yet, they are still visible. I'm living in a two-bedroom apartment while others live in a room with 50 beds. Some live on the streets. Some live in dumpsters or worse.

Why that difference? If we're so similar, why do their problems place them on the streets while my problems can be hidden enough that I can be an entry-level professional? Why do some people, including both clienteles, handle stress with drugs, while others use alcohol, eating, television, sports, abuse, sex, possessions, social interaction, technology, books, and/or self-mutilation? Is it God who hard-wired people to do these things? Is it Satan or demons who randomly succeed in tempting certain people with certain things? Is it fate? Chance? Genetics? Evolution?

Maybe there are better questions to ask. What are we doing about these differences? What am I doing about these differences? Is there anything I can do about these differences? Should I be doing anything about these differences?

If I help the college students, am I also helping the homeless? Don't both groups need help? Is it better to help one as opposed to helping the other/Other?

I still receive picture messages from a formerly-homeless man. I call him Romeo. At least, last time I checked he was formerly-homeless. His messages are all chain messages, sometimes addressing faith and sometimes including terribly vulgar pictures. I never read the messages, but I always wonder how he is doing. And I wonder if I'm still a contact in his phone for a reason. If I made a difference. If I'm making a difference. If the differences I experience--privilege--are meaningful and what, if anything, I can and should do about them.

Whatever I do, I will never forget The Beacon. And on some level, I will always help. Helping them is helping myself, since we're not all that different.

I miss you guys.

"You Got Your Own Life," Said Littl'un

It was an emotional morning at the food ministry today.

It seems the two people in charge always find new ways to belittle and dehumanize the people they are serving. Soften their hearts, Mighty Lover

I saw an old friend there, today: Littl'un. He just got out of prison for a DUI, he told me. At first, I thought he was a little drunk, but as the conversation went on, he seemed sober enough. However, people who drink as much as he does seem to hold their own when intoxicated.

We caught up a little and near the end of the conversation, he complained and badmouthed some of the men who live at the shelter. I always listen, but I am often uncomfortable when men from the shelter speak poorly of one another.

At one point, Littl'un asked me if I had been at the shelter or had plans to start working or volunteering back there. I told him I hadn't been there and would like to go over there again, but I would be inconsistent. He responded with words he has uttered to me many times before: "Well, you got your own life."

He cannot know the pain those words cause me. God forbid my life ever excludes helping people. My "own life," as Littl'un puts it--my goals, my ideals, my pursuit of happiness, my searching for God and searching with God--is the reason I went to the shelter in the first place. It is the reason I go to the food ministry, the reason I get mad when the people at the church are belittled and dehumanized.

It is the reason I wrestle, the reason I write, the reason I seek God, the reason I seek with God.

God, bless that man for caring about me and wanting me to be "successful," even if that success means I do not help him or others. What a wonderful thing he wants for me. What care he has!

But God, please, please help me give away my "own life." Prompt me to offer it to others, lead me from the temptation to keep it or take it back once it is given. I'm at peace with my relationship to the shelter and the reasons I left. Thank you for giving me opportunities to continue relationships made there, although I hope many of those relationships will end, because those men will cease to need meals served to them, will cease to need an awkward friend like me.

I want to be like you.

Amen.

Called Through Change & Tears

This story contains a reflection on call as a part of a homework assignment to describe my call to ministry.

I experienced a call to ministry today. It happened today, September 9, 2010, between noon and 12:30 when I made a 54-year old man cry.

It happened before then, actually, when this same man waved at me as I was leaving the food ministry at Shelby Presbyterian Church. He waved and I stopped to ask if he wanted a ride somewhere. He got in the car and told me he wanted to go to "some store."

We joked a little bit about how I called him the wrong name when I saw him that morning. It was the first time I had seen him since summer break. I called him Robbie and he didn't correct me. As he was finishing his lunch, I went over to him and apologized for calling him Robbie as I had randomly realized his name isn't Robbie.

He gave me directions to a certain store and he reminisced about the textile industry that once made Shelby an industrial city. He told me he loved working in the mill and wishes he could work again, maybe washing dishes. He said even those jobs are hard to find when you're in your 50s. He didn't say so, but I imagine it is even harder when you're 50 and homeless.

He asked me for some change at some point during this trip. I handed him my cup-holder ashtray and told him he could take whatever he wanted. Over the sounds of the shifting change and my car engine, he told me not to give him that option.

The conversation quickly changed and I thought about another man who asked me for change earlier that day. I had just pumped 12.52 gallons of fuel into my car. At $2.559 per gallon, my tank of gas cost me $32.04. When I got back in my car, it wouldn't start. My car has a security system on the fritz. As a result, sometimes my car thinks I'm stealing it and shuts off the gas flow to the engine for about ten minutes. During this ten minutes, a man walked by and caught my eye. He was going to see his grandfather, an amputee I had been watching who was sitting by a trash can in front of the store. The man who walked by asked me for change and I planned to give him all the change in my cup-holder ashtray. However, the container was full and I thought it would be burdensome to give the change to this man, not to mention the man's trouble in carrying it. I took about half of it and dumped it into his cupped hands.

While thinking about this man from earlier, I continued conversing with my friend. We neared the gas station and as the car slowed to a stop, he again asked if I could give him some change. He handed me the change and I proceeded to dump it into his cupped hands.

He began to cry as the coins began to fall out of his hands, onto his lap, and then onto the passenger seat. Twenty cents, to be exact. He told me he only wanted enough for a beer. Through his tears he then said, "You know I'm going to buy a beer with this?"

"I know," I replied.

Then he repeated a phrase he had said two or three times since he first embraced me that morning: "I love you, Trevar. I mean it."

Behind my sunglasses, my eyes reached that pre-tear state where they appear glossy, but the tears never fell. I moved a switch and my left-turn signal began to flash. I pulled away from the store and drove down the street to the grocery store, spending $21.92 on low-fat, organic, and natural foods. I saved 20¢ as an Ingles Advantage Card member. I paid with my debit card and received $20 back, bringing the cash value inside my wallet to $22: two ten-spots, and two one dollar bills. I wanted the cash to buy apples from a local farm stand.

The monetary contrasts of the day stood out to me. The numbers stuck in my head. I spent over $50 on food and gas and took $20 out of my bank account to spend on more food. In between my spending, I spent time with those who didn't have enough money to buy food. I probably didn't even give him $2. Estimating on the high side, I might have given away $5 in coins. My friend left 20¢ on my seat and I "saved" 20¢ at the grocery store.

In retrospect, it is the numbers, circumstances, and God that called me to ministry today, just like other days. I was called to give myself away--to be like Christ. Today I fulfilled that calling by giving away change and a little more than change. Tomorrow I hope I give more. One day, I hope to give away everything. On that day, I might be miraculously multiplied like the body of Christ and the loaves and fishes. But even if my God chooses not to multiply what I am giving away, I will give nonetheless and find the giving worth it. It is my calling.

Funny the Way It Is: Two Homes & Two Homeless Men

"Funny the way it is, when you think about it," sings Dave Matthews on his bands' newest CD. The chorus goes on to display the contrast between how one person can be enjoying a blessing that is related to someone else's sorrow. Kids might be playing outside, enjoying some of the most spectacular weather while the same sunny skies shine on someone's house burning down; "one kid walks ten miles to school, another's dropping out ... somebody's broken heart becomes your favorite song."

A friend of mine called me the other day--the tattoo guy. I like to use the word "friend" to describe him, but I am not naïve enough to think our relationship is a friendship. Perhaps we might be acquaintances, but mostly, our relationship is based in resources. We shoot the bull and catch up with each other, but only when he needs something or sometimes I feel guilty about not reaching out to him (hopefully I don't always reach out in guilt). Not the healthiest relationship, but it is a relationship nonetheless. We're trying, at least, and when at our best, we might fool ourselves.

I set myself up for this relationship. I gave him my phone number one night after he left the homeless shelter and he needed some food. I told him to use my number if he ever needed something. I never promised help, but I told him he should try and be persistent. He sends me text messages most often when he wants a ride to recovery meetings. He has also sent a few messages asking for financial help. Sometimes I can help him out, sometimes I can't. It was rough for me the first time he wanted a large chunk of change for his phone bill and I said no. I thought that might be the end of our relationship.

But it wasn't. He called me early this week. He told me things were bad. He had been staying with his girlfriend's family. And this friend of mine--I can imagine him being hard to live with. He has quite the temper, is vulgar, and doesn't seem to care too much for the lives of others. He told me the family was yelling at him and he couldn't take it anymore, so he left. I have heard this story before, just with different people yelling at him.

He was staying at the place where the recovery groups meet, because he has a key. His girlfriend showed up soon after. I don't know if he intended for her to come or not. He might have meant to leave her.

She is pregnant. Very pregnant. I wouldn't be surprised if she had the baby since I spoke with him earlier this week. He said she couldn't go to the homeless shelter, because they feared the baby would be taken away.

He never asked for anything from me during this conversation. I think he intended to ask, though. It doesn't matter either way. I was just glad he called and opened up to me. When I mentioned I was in West Virginia for the summer, he said, "Oh, shit, well," and then continued talking about how he didn't know what to do. I didn't know what to do either. Perhaps I should have called DSS. Who am I to say the child will live a better life adopted or in foster care?

After speaking with this friend, I thought of another guy I met at the shelter. I've mentioned him before, calling him Romeo. I sent a text message to Romeo to check up on him. He said things were going so great for him. He had moved to South Carolina where he was living with his new girlfriend.

I was happy for Romeo, but unnerved by the contrast between him and my other friend. Over the next couple of days Romeo continued to send me text messages. The relationship became rocky. I got updates of ups and downs, so many that I stopped responding. I wasn't annoyed, but I simply had nothing to say. Today I learned he is back in town where he started. He goes back and forth on whether or not he'll be with this woman again, a lot depending on "when she finds herself." He thought he had a place lined up to stay. The last message I got said he has nowhere to go. I suggested the shelter, but he thinks he has too much stuff with him to go to the shelter.

I have an apartment on campus at Gardner-Webb University in North Carolina. Right now only my fish and cactus occupy it, because I am living in a trailer Fayetteville, WV for a summer internship. I have two places to live and I know three people (maybe three and a baby) with no place to live.

Funny, the way it is.

Well, I'm not sure funny is the right word to describe it.