The Boy Who Stole the Tips

Tags

Bakery, homework, job, Justice, prison, school, stealing, tips, Work

I’d heard about him for weeks but got my first glimpse of him yesterday. He was a small thing, cute you might even say, couldn’t be more than 11 or 12 years old and certainly not more than 5 feet tall. He came into the bakery and, after surveying the goat cheese/baguette sample, politely asked me if that was the only sample we had today.

“No,” I responded cheerfully, “We also have a delicious chocolate pound cake sample.” I gestured my hand toward the front counter.

His eyes lit up as he took one and then went out the front door of the store to tell his sister about the day’s find.

“You know that’s the kid don’t you?” Asked my co-worker.

“What?”

“That’s the kid who stole our tips a few weeks ago. He’s been in here three times since then, trying to get away with it again. He has his routine down pat: he’ll come in and check out the samples, go outside and tell his sister what we have, and then come back in and out several more times, casing the place. His sister sits out there and coaches him.”

And, sure enough, a few seconds later, the boy was back. First he took the goat cheese sample and then the chocolate. I quickly placed the cookie count clipboard I was holding over the tip jar. The boy left. And, a few minutes later, he was back. I put the jar on the back counter.

“Why can’t we do something about this?” I implored my co-worker. “If we know it’s him and we know what he’s doing, we have to say something!” I was angry, not so much because the boy was trying to take my tips (which, at a bakery are pretty abysmal anyway), but that he was blatantly attempting it. He would look us in the eye and talk to us very politely. He put on his very best I’m-a-cute-innocent-little-child-what-would-I-ever-do-to-you face.

My anger slowly turned to pity and sadness as I realized this is where it starts. This kid, in his school uniform on his way home from class, was stealing tips. And not just stealing, coming back to the same place to steal again and doing it boldly.

What happens when the thrill of a few dollars in tips from a bakery isn’t enough anymore? If he doesn’t learn now that stealing is wrong and that his actions have consequences, his life could be headed down a slippery, dark path.

But what can I say? “Hey kid, we know you stole our tips and we’re watching. It’s not nice to take other people’s things. What’s a young boy like you doing stealing anyway? Shouldn’t you be doing homework?” This method of the nice lady trying to help the little wayward child rarely works. I feel stupid just typing it.

Or I could go the route of “Hey you, if we catch you stealing our tips again we’ll call the cops!” You know, the whole scare-the-heck-out-of-’em technique. But I don’t believe in threats of punishment as a way to learn correct behavior. After all, look at what a great job our prison system is doing by using this method.

So I did nothing. I saw him come in for the fourth time in a ten minute span and I watched him walk over to take another sample. My co-worker held up a finger, as if to say, “One sample only,” and gave him a hard, cold stare.

I could only watch as the boy who stole the tips walked away.

Thanks but No Thanks

Tags

American, Christmas, Columbus Day, First Nations, Fourth of July, Holidays, Imperialism, Native Americans, Solidarity, Thanksgiving

We are in the midst of the crazy marathon that is the holiday season. I spent the last few days at my parents’ house in Greencastle, PA enjoying time off work with my family. When I asked a co-worker last week what her Thanksgiving plans were, she said she and her family don’t recognize Thanksgiving because they are First Nations peoples and don’t want to celebrate “imperialism.” Wow, right on. And this got me thinking, why am I, as an activist and peace builder, celebrating Thanksgiving?

It’s easy for me to take a moral stance against a horrible holiday like Columbus Day because I have never celebrated it and, therefore, am not giving up too much by protesting it. But holidays like Thanksgiving and the Fourth of July, while both equally steeped in imperialism and lies, are harder for me to bypass because it would mean giving up quality family time.

But while I’m off stuffing my face with an unnecessary amount of calories and being thankful for all the shit I don’t need let alone deserve, there are people I know who cannot celebrate these holidays because they know their souls will not let them.

It kills me when I hear about people more concerned with “keeping the Christ in Christmas” than keeping the truth abut our nation’s history in the forefront of our minds. We still send our kids to school dressed as “Pilgrims and Indians” for gosh sake– stereotypical much? We still have a professional sports teams like the Braves and the Redskins that further stereotypes of our First Nations’ peoples using logos of tomahawks and Native Americans in headdresses. And now we have school boards in Tucson, AZ banning books about Native American and Mexican American history in the U.S. (the real history of the U.S.). And we let this happen!

And as much as I want to protest this by not celebrating these holidays I realize that there are other ways to protest our imperialistic past (and present). One step is by talking about what really happened on that “First Thanksgiving” and recognizing the atrocities our ancestors have committed and the atrocities we are still complicit in. Another way is to do away with Columbus Day all together and celebrate Solidarity with Indigenous Peoples Day (yes, it is a real and beautiful holiday).

Reclaiming, that’s where we can start. While it is much easier to continue celebrating American holidays as we always have, what if we got to the point where our souls wouldn’t let us continue watching football and eating turkey without thinking about the truth behind what we are celebrating? So, for me, when it comes to these holidays in their current state I have no choice but to say, “Thanks but no thanks.”

Seeking Peace and Being Present

Tags

Being Present, Biking, Peace, Seeking

I named this blog seek the peace because that was my goal for volunteering in New York City last year.  Now that I’ve moved to Philadelphia, the goal is the same, to seek the peace of the this city and, yes, that can be a very ambiguous and difficult thing to do.

The thing about seeking the peace of the city is that you have to stop seeking everything else. What I mean by this is that I need to be where I am, not only physically but in every other way as well.  I think part of the reason I did not truly fall in love with NYC until over halfway through my service term was because I focused so much on the future that I lost sight of the present.

I find that happening in Philly too. In fact, I’ve come to realize that I have a restless soul. I never seem to be content with where I am– I either live in the past, wishing for what I miss or I live in an imagined future, wishing for all this is to discover.

While remembering the past and looking forward to the future are both valuable things, they cannot constantly overrule the present.  To seek the peace of the city I must first be in the city.  I have to stop living like I am going to move as soon as I get the chance (although I feel that way a lot).

So in one way I have to stop seeking, stop looking for an escape forward or backward.  In another way, the seeking has just begun, looking for ways I can be a part of the community and continue this work of peace building that I began years ago.

Part of seeking the peace of a city is approaching the city on its terms and wow does Philly teach me that a lot.  Take this simple example: I went to take my new bike for a spin around the block, bragging to dear Timo about how I biked all over NYC. Not even a half block from my house, my bike tire got caught in a trolley track and I slammed into the pavement…hard. Embarrassed and sore, I dragged my wrecked bike back to Timo to see if he could help me fix its twisted frame.

This is life in a new city. While I’ve had life experiences in other cities and while those experiences certainly help me in my life here in Philly, I cannot assume that one city is like the next. Each one has new challenges, new people, new ways of doing, new ways of being. And Philly is no different.

Wanderlust

Tags

Being Present, Wandering, Wanderlust

Last night I had one of many text conversations with my mom about how restless I am with my life. “I miss NYC every day,” I told her. “The process of adjustment is much slower than I’d like it to be.”

“Give it time,” she urged me, “You hated New York almost the whole time you were there.” Wow, why are moms always right? It’s true, for about 9 months of my 12 month stint in New York City I hated it. I couldn’t wait to move to Philly and now that I’m in Philly all I want to do is move back to NYC– what the hell is up with that?

Truth is I’ve never done well with change. For being someone who is anti-tradition in a lot of ways I sure do like things to stay the same. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if we could just jump into a new adventure and feel at home right away?

I hate adjustment periods, hate them but I know they are necessary for growth. I find life to be such a contradiction: I want to grow and be challenged but, when I am, I try to run back to where things were comfortable. It makes me want to pull my hair out (but then, of course, I’d want to go back to the days when I had hair…)!

Some days my soul is filled so full with wanderlust that I have no room for anything else. Not that the desire to explore and find new adventures is a bad thing, it just needs to be more in balance with the desire to be present in each and every place I find myself. Being present is just as beautiful as being a wanderer.

Pat-a-cake, Pat-a-cake, Baker’s Woman…

Tags

Bakery, Baking, Bread, Metropolitan, Philadelphia, Work

Yes, that’s right, you are looking at a baker woman. Ok well I don’t actually bake the bread but I sell it which is the next best thing, right? After a month-long search for a second part-time job, I finally found one at Metropolitan Bakery in Center City Philadelphia.

I started baking bread my senior year of college and, over the last two years, I must say I’ve moved fairly successfully from a five pound brick to an actual soft, appealing loaf. But wow does Metropolitan put any of my bread baking to shame.

Miche (pronounced “meesh”), my favorite Metropolitan loaf, contains rye, wheat, and white flours. Photo courtesy of metropolitanbakery.com

It’s hard not to stare in awe at the perfectly shaped, delicious looking loaves that grace the shelves behind me each day, not to mention the delectable baked goods displayed on the counter in front of me. You could say I’m stuck between a loaf and a bread place and the temptation is nearly unbearable!

Just a portion of the the goods on the counter (see why I’m tempted?). Photo courtesy of metropolitanbakery.com

I have always found bread baking to be a holistically beautiful act of defiance. Bread baking is spiritual in its connection to Mother God, it is physical in its connection to our sense of touch, and it is emotional in its connection to the earth. The art of bread baking stands in direct contrast to how most of our food is produced today.

The connection between our food and how it is made or grown is nearly lost. I do not deny the benefits of grocery stores (and I frequent them as much as anyone else) but I also recognize the power that comes from growing or making food with my own hands. Yes, baking bread takes time and energy but nothing beats the smell of freshly baked bread as it permeates each corner of the house and the sense of accomplishment that comes with it.

In front of the bakery.

This bakery job is the perfect compliment to my 9 to 1 office job. I get to interact with people (one of my favorite things to do), there is physical labor involved (one of the things I need to get back into), and, most importantly, I enjoy it. Yes, I enjoy my work. Such a simple thing that makes a world of difference.

While I do not suspect either of my current jobs will be my lifelong career, I can say that I am happy with what I am doing. I’m glad I learned early in life that, for me, no amount of money can compete with being happy and fulfilled.

Specialty Bread: Chocolate Cherry. Photo courtesy of Metropolitan Bakery’s Breadhead blog

Backpacking in the Catskills

Tags

Backpacking, Catskill Mountains, Catskills, Cooking Fire, Hiking, Mountains, Nature, Slide Mountain Loop, Tenting

In my mind I still see myself as a 20 year old college basketball player but, this past weekend, reality hit me hard: I am an out of shape college grad with a slight asthma problem. Somewhere between the giant rocks I scaled, the summits I ascended, and the many miles I traversed I discovered what I was made of– sore muscles and shallow lungs!

When the opportunity to backpack the 17 mile Slide Mountain Loop through the southern Catskill Mountains was presented to me I had no choice but to grasp it. Backpacking has always been a dream of mine and now it was going to be a reality.

We started out Friday evening with a short 2 mile hike to Giant Ledge. And, yes, true its name, it is a really big ledge that overlooks the Catskills. While it was the shortest part of the loop, it was one of the hardest. Most of that first hour I spent trying to catch my breath, calm my muscles, and comfort my mind saying, “You can do this.” over and over again.

I thought often of one of my favorite writers, Anne Lamott, during the weekend. She says that her two favorite and necessary prayers are “help me, help me, help me” and “thank you, thank you, thank you.” Wow was I muttering a lot of those prayers!

Both nights were incredibly and eerily windy. At times the wind sounded like ocean waves, crashing above my head one after the other. Other times, as I lay awake in my tent, I could hear the wind coming as if through a tunnel, getting louder and louder until it encircled my tent. Then the wind would race back around the mountain and come through again, chasing itself like a dog chasing its tail.

Boiling our drinking water

Maybe it’s because this backpacking trip was only 2 nights and 3 days but I am still enchanted by cooking over a fire, sleeping in a tent outdoors, boiling my drinking water, and going to the bathroom in the trees. In the mountains, meeting these basic needs is the task at hand and I am all the more appreciative and in awe of how these needs are met.

The excitement in backpacking comes not only in the challenge it presents and the feeling of accomplishment it brings but also in the reality of living with only what you need to survive. Everything you need is on your back (or your friend’s back) and whatever you do not have, nature will provide. It’s a beautiful give and take: nature gives what she can and you take only what you need, being careful not to disturb her too much.

And nature keeps you in check too. Just when you think you’ve reached the summit or conquered that last climb, she reminds you that you aren’t even close. Just when you think you’ve seen the most breathtaking view yet she teaches you that another incredible view is waiting around the next bend. Just when you think the path is too difficult and you can’t make it, she levels out the way in front of you so you can catch your breath. In this way, nature commands our respect.

Even though I came back from the trip severely sleep deprived and sore with a splitting headache and a knee that still aches, I would do the trip again in a heartbeat. Because, at the end of the day, I’m made of so much more than sore muscles and shallow lungs– I got (Cat)skills.

And Then the Bottom Falls Out

Tags

Family, Fragility of Life, Grandfather, Healing

I’ve never been sure that prayer actually does anything but for some reason I keep praying, mostly for my own sanity. I think prayer is more for my benefit than anything– I throw a pleading prayer up to the sky in an exhausted attempt to get whatever is bothering me out of my hands. I can only take the stress, pain, and worry for so long before I have to release it and hope it comes back as a miracle. It usually doesn’t.

Our bodies are such beautiful, intricate, fragile, stupid things. One small incident or accident can alter them completely. One stupid brain aneurysm can render a strong, healthy, wonderful man helpless. One stupid body can suppress my grandfather’s beautiful soul.

I hate brain injuries, dammit I hate them! I can tell he’s in there. Yes my grandfather is there but he can’t get out and it is out of my power to help him. Dammit!

This isn’t supposed to happen to him, to my family. These things happen to other people, to other families. NOT MINE. And suddenly, in the blink of an eye, everything has changed. What will life look like now?

I squint my eyes shut tightly and try to get the image of that hospital room out of my head. I cover my head with my arms and cry, letting all the emotional pain come out in physical expression. And finally, exhausted, I throw a prayer up to the ceiling.

And this is life, as stupid and fragile as the bodies we are bound to. Things may go well for a time but then the bottom falls out and all that was beneath you, holding you up, is gone and you are free falling. You claw at anything that you might be able to grasp with your feeble fingers but everything is out of reach.

And yet, somehow, just before you implode, you manage to land on your feet. Someone or something reaches out and grabs you and you fall into their hands, like drifting upon a hammock on the beach. And you can’t tell if it’s sound of the waves or the sound of your own tears that lulls you to sleep saying, “All will be well. Rest and you will see that all will be well.”

“I’m good enough, I’m smart enough, and, doggone it, people like me!”

Tags

Philadelphia, Work

As anyone who’s moved to a new city, started a new job, and rented a new apartment can attest to, getting settled is anything but a rose garden.

I’ve now been a Philadelphia resident for nearly two weeks and I’m slowly starting to feel at home. Thanks to my wonderful neighbors, the Kauffmans (who also happen to be dear Timo’s parents),  I have not had to go hungry or be lonely for too very long.

My part-time job is wonderful, however, when one has rent and student debts as high as the Empire State Building, a second job is necessary. After day one of unsuccessful job hunting I was still excited and chipper.

After day three, a little deflated but still gung-ho.

Day seven, depressed and drowning my sorrows in wine while attempting to watch an ever-buffering episode of House Hunters International.

Did I mention I’m a bit on the impatient side? I know patience is a pain in the ass virtue but that doesn’t make it any easier!

Day nine, nearly in tears. I know those of you reading this who’ve spent months looking for jobs are thinking, “This girl is a nutcase! Nine days and she’s in tears? Pathetic!” Well, yes, I am pathetic.

This brings me to yesterday, day 10. I had a training with the owner of a small local restaurant and bar at 4 that I was kind of hoping would amount to something. I say kind of because the day before when I arrived at the place the boss sized me up, glanced at my resume for two seconds, and said, “Be back tomorrow at 4 for training.”

Now usually one is interviewed, then hired, then trained with pay. Not so at this establishment. One is found to be able bodied, then trained without pay, then hired if they make it through training. Gulp.

So yesterday I showed up at 4 pm, quite wary but ready to go. “How long will this training last?” I ask boss-lady.

She gives me a stupified look and says, “A couple hours, a couple days– as long as it takes you to learn the job.” Witty.

“No, I mean today. How long will training last today?”

“We’re open to 2 am aren’t we? It goes til then.”

Now correct me if I’m wrong but 10 hours of “training” without pay is against some kind of labor law right? At the very least it’s ridiculous!

“Well,” I tell her, “we did not discuss that yesterday and I am unable to stay until 2 am without pay.” Ballsy for me, I know.

“Oh, so you wanna train for an hour here and train for an hour there and call that training?” As she rambled on about everyone getting their hustle on and the need for her strict training, I started to smile because I knew that I was not that desperate.

“I don’t think this going to work out,” I firmly told her.

“Well I’m glad you know now cuz I don’t want you wasting my time.” You and me both lady!

I left that place feeling an incredible sense of peace in the fact that I had not settled. Yes, I still need a job more desperately than ever but I don’t need to take a job I would be miserable doing out of desperation.

You see I’ve been feeling pretty lonely, unhappy, and bored since I moved to Philly and what’s made it worse is that I just sit around and wallow in those feelings. Wah, wah, wah, poor little me.

But it took a snappy woman at a job that certainly wasn’t up my alley to snap me out of my funk. I may not have it all at this moment in my life but I don’t need to because I’m good enough, I’m smart enough, and, doggone it, people like me!

“It’s the end of my service term as I know it and I feel fine”

Tags

DC, Morocco, New York City

I knew this day was coming and, in many ways, I looked forward to the end of my service term with great anticipation. But, now that it’s here, I’m dragging my feet. As my dear friend told me the other day, “Isn’t it crazy that one day we will look back on this whole experience and say, ‘That was this thing I did once’?” Those words hit me like a wall.

Morocco Megan

I thought back on other powerful experiences in my life, like my month in Morocco and my semester in DC, and how, at the time, it felt like the world would be like that forever. It seemed like those relationships would always be that solid and those emotions of wonder and fulfillment would always be that strong. But time moved along and, before I knew it, I was looking back on those experiences as stories, hardly even things that really happened.

Although that thought saddens me, I also find it peculiar and refreshing that time has also weakened the intensity of  the difficulties I faced in Morocco and DC. With time’s healing power, the sexual harassment, food poisoning, loneliness, and depression no longer taste so bitter and I can look back on those lived experience in an overall good light.

I feel that the same thing will happen as I look back on this experience in a year or two; I will be saddened by the beautiful things I have lost but also encouraged that I have overcome an intensely difficult situation. This year will live on in my memory as another piece of the intricate puzzle of my life. So farewell New York City, hello Philadelphia. Whether I’m ready for it or not, let the next stage begin.

I couldn’t conclude this final New York City post without a few things I will miss so here is a list of loves in no particular order:

1. The subway. I have a love/hate relationships with the good old NYC transit system. Love: subway performers, getting places quickly, air conditioned cars. Hate: uncomfortable situations with strangers, crowded cars, “Ladies and gentlemen we are being held momentarily by the train’s dispatcher.”

2. Biking. I still am in awe at how quickly bikes can take me where I need to go. Biking is the fastest, most convenient, most thrilling way to get to many places in the city. Period.

3. The street grid. While I don’t like Manhattan very much I do love that nearly the entire island is on a grid making it super easy to get yourself un-lost. The grid helped me in a many an unpleasant scenario. (Note: smart phones also help one find their way but, alas, I do not own one).

4. The Menno and the MMF. I’ve said this before so really no need to elaborate but I love my housemates, love my church community. Boom.

5. Close proximity to everything. Washing machine breaks? No problem, there’s a laundromat around the corner. No groceries? No problem, there are about six options within a 15 minute walking radius. Want to go for a run? The East River is just blocks away.

6. Social Justice and Activism. Everywhere I look there are protests, marches, and amazing people working for social justice. I know these things happen everywhere but they are so easy to get involved in here in New York City. The people united will never be defeated.

7. Cultural diversity. I’ve experienced so many different cultures from neighborhood to neighborhood in Manhattan, Queens, and Brooklyn. You can literally walk across the world by just walking a few blocks.

There are so many more things I can add but bless your heart for already reading this much nonsense. Thanks for diving into this journey with me!

-Megan

New York Megan ready for new adventures

Closing the Chapter

It’s been a tough year, a crazy, wonderful, unbelievably tough year. There is really no way I can sum up this chapter of my life in a way that truly does justice to my lived experiences. In many ways it seems like I’m closing a whole book rather than just a chapter but in other ways it feels like I’ve only written a page in the grand narrative of my life.

One of the ways I think about this past year is in juxtapositions. I have hated as much I’ve loved, died as much as I’ve lived, broken as much as I’ve healed, cried as much as I’ve laughed. But if I think of these experiences as a tree then the hating, dying, brokeness, and crying are the raindrops and soil that are necessary for my roots to dig deeper into the earth. The loving, living, healing, and laughing are the leaves on my branches that are here for a season, fall away for a time, but then grow back with new vigor.

Yet even now, with a week left at my volunteer placement, I am having trouble seeing the growth that comes from the pain. I know that I’ve learned so much doing this work, I know that this work is vital, and I know that I persevered through an incredibly difficult work situation but a lot of days I’m not sure it was worth it. I hope to look back on this experience in a few months or years and feel differently about it but right now, on this day, I don’t.

It’s never easy to close a chapter of life, no matter how strenuous or difficult it was, because there is always a bit of loss involved.

By far the biggest loss will be the amazing communities of Menno House and Manhattan Mennonite Fellowship. I always knew community living was beautiful but I never anticipated how incredible living with ten people could be– a group that large that gets along that well is a once in a lifetime thing. And now I move into a living situation where it is just me and I wonder if I’ve made the right choice. Will I be able to thrive on my own?

After my childhood church fell apart and turned into an ugly place that fostered so much hurt and division, I gave up on church communities. But being a part of MMF has renewed my hope and faith in the church. While I’m still not entirely convinced that the institution that is church can truly be anything other than an institution, I’ve seen the beauty that the church can be in MMF.

Even leaving New York City will be a loss. It took me months to warm up to her but I’m glad I finally did. Yet I look forward to living in Philadelphia, a city I have always loved and longed to live in.

Again, these mere words are not doing even an ounce of justice to a year of lived experiences but I have to express something, somehow. I wish I could find all the right, true, and beautiful words to sum it all up but perhaps I am not meant to. Perhaps I am meant to reflect on what I can, to remember the things that nourish me, to recognize my humanness, and to let the last page of the chapter close where it may.