Landlord

I’m being unfair. At least that’s what Julie, my roommate who wears strappy sandals with t-shirts, says. Today, I’m being unfair because I said that Tony is an amateur slum landlord. She says that I’m being unfair because Tony has another full-time job and he did ask for a list of things we want fixed and everyone knows that his son’s in some sort of trouble and real slum landlords are so much more neglectful and so much less available.

I don’t know that I buy it though.

I mean, take this morning when I hear Tony’s voice in the alley outside my window and so I’m up and dressed faster than you can say Jack Black and I’ve strategically positioned myself on our front porch, book in hand, just waiting for Tony to show. Five minutes pass, ten. I’m starting to think that this was a waste, that maybe I should crawl back into bed where it’s safe and warm and comfortable, when I hear the voices again and suddenly, Tony makes his appearance. He’s not alone this time, no, but it’s not one of his usual goons either. No, this time he’s with a woman, and even from my horribly conspicuous position, I can tell that this is a woman he’s trying to impress. She rounds the corner first and sees me, poised and ready, feigning interest in a book about how to write, and she smiles at me – all Maria von Trapp-like – and says “Hello there!” like we’ve been friends since seventh grade. I nod to her but really, I’m looking for Tony – Tony with his stained t-shirt tucked into his belt and a slight paunch like maybe he used to be alright at baseball but a long, long time ago – and sure enough, Tony’s only a step or two behind her, smiling up a storm. When he sees me, his face falls, but he catches it and makes an admirable recovery.

“How’s it going?” he asks in that amateur slum landlord voice of his, but we both know the question isn’t meant to be answered. He doesn’t care how it’s going and neither do I, what we both really care about at the moment is that list that Julie and I sent him and whether or not I’m going to bring it up right now in front of his lady friend.

“Good,” I respond in a too-chipper-for-this-early-on-a-Sunday voice, then I pause dramatically. “So what’s happening with that list?”

There. It’s out there in the open, and there’s no going back, now that I’ve said it. The woman glances from Tony to me and back to Tony, trying to figure out whether this is a friendly inquiry, then decides that it is and chuckles to herself. She has short, gray-brown frizz-hair, like mouse fur that’s been brushed the wrong way, and as she cocks her head to one side, I suddenly find myself thinking of ninth-grade biology and the smell of formaldehyde. Tony shifts from one foot to the other and exhales through one nostril in a belabored attempt to hide his frustration, but we both know that it didn’t work, that I’ve thrown the first punch and it’s his turn to retaliate.

“I have it, Julie sent it to me.”

“And what about the new bathroom sink – the one you dropped off last Tuesday?” I challenge, jerking a thumb towards our apartment and the unopened box just inside.

“My next free moment is yours,” Tony answers with an exaggerated bow, rolling his eyes at the woman who’s ambled over to our front gate and is examining the peeling metal rails in an overly curious manner.

This might be comforting to hear, except that he said the same thing last week and the week before that, and we both know very well that neither his next free moment nor the one after that will be spent replacing the sink with the perennially clogged drain.

Across the way, the von Trapp woman is running fingers through her mousy hair and gazing down the street lackadaisically. I wonder what she knows about Tony’s son and if she likes to sing. Tony is saying something else now, something about Tiba, the guy who’s rented out the basement closet for the past month or two, and how he’s looking forward to telling Tiba that he has to be out of the house by the end of the month. I’m only half-listening though, because I’m thinking about the woman and what it would be like to have her as a step-mom.

“If you see him, tell him he has until next Saturday,” Tony is saying excitedly, pounding a fist into his other hand for emphasis. “No, next Friday!”

I nod, unsure of who I’m supposed to talk to and what I’m supposed to tell them, but it doesn’t matter, because he did say “if” after all.

A dented blue hatchback speeds past with windows down and music blaring, and we’re reminded that this is Sunday and that this conversation is much too work-like for a weekend. We offer half-smiles of truce, and we both know that the debate is paused until the next time we see one another – in another week or two or five – when Tony will once again ask how it’s going and I’ll once again ask about the list. Perhaps this is what is meant by a comfortable relationship.

Tony is scurrying away now, crab-like, and when he catches up to his lady friend, she gives him a quizzical look and he leans in close and says something that makes her laugh, and I make a mental note to tell Julie about this, Julie who wears strappy sandals with t-shirts and says that I’m being unfair.

Meetings et al.

So very many meetings. I’ve decided that I am hereby boycotting meetings and in fact have not committed myself to attending any new ones since making that statement last night. Surely that’s a sign of conviction, no?

What else has happened as of late? Meetings about how various groups will get along when the G-20 arrives; making homemade pizza with ricotta and fresh basil; meetings about handling the media before, during, and after the G-20; a few treasured moments spent with Dave before he left for Burma (he’s somewhere in air-space right now, in fact); meetings with the staff at the Center about how to handle the board around issues of the G-20; numerous interviews with “journalists” from the Post-Gazette, Tribune Review, New Pittsburgh Courier, Associated Press, City Paper, New York Times, WTAE, KDKA (radio), KDKA (television).

Gethsemani #4

6:20 a.m.

Voluntary poverty is a good and interesting concept. Good for both individuals and the larger community, interesting in the many potential outcomes it could have.

Revealing quote by Dorothy Day: “Voluntary poverty is the answer. Through voluntary poverty, we will have the means to help our brothers and sisters. We cannot even see our brothers and sisters in need without first stripping ourselves. It is the only way we have of showing our love.”

John Dear (Seeds of Nonviolence) goes on to say that one cannot befriend the poor if we are of a different class. It simply doesn’t work if we give a few hours of our time and then return to our separate worlds – worlds with an excess of food, expensive toys, and more space than we know what to do with. In and of itself, such action would be charity – a rather patronizing act of charity, one might imagine – but there is no long-term commitment nor potential for real connection, friendship.

“For Christians, simple lifestyle and voluntary poverty mean dedicating ourselves to meeting Christ in the distressing disguise of the poor, of the enemy, of the marginalized peoples of the world,” Dear writes. “Voluntary poverty leads us to an encounter with God. As an act of faith, it enlivens our faith and sets us on fire. It is perhaps the least likely, least popular, hardest and surest way to God, for it molds us into true dependence, the obedience which frees.”

Perhaps this is it. Perhaps I feel more distant from God than I ever have before because I am more distant from the poor of the world than I ever have been. During late college – during that time when I had so many rich and revealing conversations – I was spending much of my time with some of Philadelphia’s poorest. In Pittsburgh, what do I know of the poorest and neediest? Though I work in one of the most economically impoverished and continually threatened neighborhoods, the bulk of my time – both at work and home – is spent in the company of white, economically well-off people. This is not what I want to be doing; respect it as I may, lobbying and long-term political activism is not what I feel I should be doing with my time. What I feel more passionate for is providing “here and now” solutions (while knowing that long-term solutions are in the works) for those who do not know where their next meal is coming from or where their family will sleep tonight.

I must re-examine and set plans for a low-income resource center in Pittsburgh.

I feel refreshed/thoughtful/much more at peace.

 

8:45 a.m.

Sitting in the lobby of the retreat house, soon to leave for good. This has been a satisfying weekend – quiet, centering, much-needed. Though my desire to hear God was not fulfilled as I wished it to be, I do think that I’ve heard and listened and learned. Communication changes over time, and my communication style with God/the inner light/x has done likewise. I know that I need to be more focused, less easily distracted, and I will work on this. I thoroughly intend to attend this Wednesday’s taize service at ELPC.

I feel at peace/directed/ready.

Gethsemani #3

4:25 a.m.

How is it that politics and religion can remain as separated as they are in so many circles? So much of Christianity and Christ’s teachings is about moral decisions – helping the poor, non-discrimination, non-violence – and yet so many religious groups turn a blind eye to the same issues as they exist in today’s world. How is it that of all of the religious and spiritual friends that I have, so few are politically involved? How is it that of my politically-aware friends, so few are spiritual? And where do I and my interests fit in?

 

9:50 a.m.

Merton upon realizing all that the apartheid in South Africa (in 1960!) entailed:

“At least, some of us know that we don’t see and that we are secondly, stupid, befogged, helpless. That our vague good will can do nothing. And we are snowed under by useless goods, objects, foods, furniture, clothes, things that keep in movement our absurd society of advertising and commerce. We consume and waste and throw away and everyone else in the world starves, and starves miserably. The best that can be said is that we don’t want it to happen that way. But it does.

I must do all I can to learn and understand and try to see things as they are and know what I at least can do about them. It is appalling to be drained and blinded by the mental habits we cultivate here in the name of love and holiness. Yet it is obvious that I am called to pray for the world. Shame makes me doubt the validity of my prayer. It should not.”

Perhaps this is the answer for which I am seeking. Not that I am called upon to pray for the world – no, at least not only that – but that there are innumerous indignities afoot in our world and just as many methods of quelling them. Prayer, lobbying for political change, offering food and bus tickets to any and all – each of these is a method of solution and none is more valid than the others. Thus said, I should not feel obligated to utilize only one of these, particularly if I feel a much stronger connection with another.

I need to remember this and to not hesitate/doubt myself and my intents (i.e. low-income resource center) because they do not fit within a certain person’s definition of “social change.”

It is wet again today. Both birds and traffic are restless, and the constant drip-sounds of rain on recently-cut grass is accompanied by the continuously frantic baying of young bloodhounds somewhere off in the woods.