Hope/Inspiration

Budget Cuts: When Numbers Numb Hearts

March 22, 2017 by Julia 2 Comments

The tears caught me off guard. When I told my husband that the proposed federal budget cuts include NeighborWorks… out they came, filling my eyes and rolling down my cheeks.

Does that make me sound weak (that I actually cried)? For a moment I thought it might, but then I changed my mind. I remembered the time one of my mentors shed tears during a speech she gave about nuclear weapons. She scolded herself afterwards, embarrassed that she had unintentionally performed the part of a stereotypical emotional woman. I defended her honor all those years ago, insistent that the problem with our world is not that people cry when talking about nuclear weapons, but that far too many people don’t.

So, yes, I cried when I saw the list of programs that the Whitehouse wants to eliminate. And I’ll probably do it again. There are so many worthwhile programs in peril; this one just happens to feel like a personal friend.

For anyone who doesn’t know, NeighborWorks is a program that helps fund organizations like Goshen’s LaCasa, Inc.

LaCasa pulls money from federal, state, local, and private sources — and adds a whole bunch of volunteers — to accomplish things like putting roofs over people’s heads. Sometimes that means using matched savings accounts for first-time home purchases. Sometimes it means helping homeowners avoid foreclosure; and still other times it means replacing a homeowner’s leaking roof through the Help-a-House program.

All of these individual homeowners are connected to entire neighborhoods; and organizations like LaCasa and NeighborWorks understand that people’s economic destinies are tied to their neighbors.

Here’s where I get choked up: the NeighborWorks Community Leadership Institute. It’s an annual conference that puts 1,000 people who care about their neighbors together in one place for three days. People from all over the nation — people of varying racial, ethnic and cultural groups — attend workshops, comparing successes and challenges from their own neighborhoods.

I need you to know that these conference attendees are some of the most inspirational, good-hearted, justice-seeking people I’ve ever met. People who traded in six-figure incomes for non-profit salaries because they wanted to work with youth in inner cities; people who non-violently took back a public park from drug dealers; people who set up job training centers and after-school programs and the list goes on. Seven years I attended that conference … and seven years I came back home feeling good about the world, about my country, about Goshen.

For over a decade, LaCasa has sent local teams to the conference who then return to launch projects with small NeighborWorks grants earned when they submit a written plan. I first attended as a volunteer for my own neighborhood; and then later, when I was a LaCasa employee, I recruited teams and traveled along with them.

There are too many names to list, but when I hear talk of eliminating the program, I can’t help but think of all the Goshen residents who have tackled projects with NeighborWorks (and LaCasa).

I think of the families that met over the course of several years on a vacant lot at Center and North Eighth streets to dig and plant and harvest vegetables together. I remember the kids who held up worms and yanked out dandelions, kids of varying colors, cultures and ages.

And the mural, I think of the mural, too. The one across the street from Chamberlain Elementary where most of the children qualify for free or reduced lunch. I remember that hot, sticky summer when a local artist let a whole bunch of people in the neighborhood “help” her paint. As we stood sweating in the afternoon sun, passersby honked and waved their approval. We waved back, offering thumbs up and “woo-hoos.” When it was done, everyone who held a brush was proud.

And those Westside Women. After a shooting on their block, several of them decided to organize. We consumed a lot of donuts and coffee on Saturday mornings as they charted a course. Now they lead a thriving neighborhood association.

The dollar amount that flows to Goshen from NeighborWorks and other affordable housing programs is minimal in the grand scheme of things, but the funding is significant to our smallish community — and its economy.

Budgets are so much more than numbers. They are documents that reflect our deepest held values. Surely we can agree that in this community… in this country… tending to our neighbors and neighborhoods makes good sense. Anything less than that should bring a tear to all our eyes.

A Place at the American Table

February 24, 2017 by Julia 4 Comments

My maternal great grandmother came to the United States from Germany when she was just 14 years old. She traveled alone, sent with a small collection of items to begin her new life in America. I know almost nothing about her, except that she told my grandmother never to marry a German (a sweeping declaration I found confusing as a child). Today, generations later, my sole link to her is a dark, claw-footed table that sits in my sunroom. Some days I wonder why I didn’t ask more questions.

It’s hard NOT to think about one’s immigrant roots these days. It feels like a time to consider all the “what-if’s” and “but-for’s” of our cultural and national lineage.

I was born into a middle class family here in the United States of America. I didn’t have to haul water for my family or sell fruit in a market as a child. I went to school and learned how to read and write (arithmetic – well, I tried). I had enough food, shelter and love to grow. I had more than I needed.

As an adult, I’ve kept the middle class foothold I was granted at birth. My husband and I own our home and (with some help from family) our daughter has graduated from college debt-free (listen to my gigantic sigh of relief). No, we don’t summer in the Hamptons or belong to a country club, but we can afford Netflix and dinner at Constant Spring (as if anyone could ask for more).

Mine is a fairly ordinary American story. At least for a white American with a not-too-distant immigrant past. This nation has absorbed and nourished generations of immigrants. Although I say that with the knowledge that my German great grandmother visually “blended in ” to a majority-white America. Many immigrants from the countries identified and targeted by the current presidential administration don’t.

Admittedly (yes — ADMIT it), our past is littered with racial and ethnic transgressions that I can’t possibly do justice to here… but at least our rhetoric has tended toward generosity. In my lifetime, our national words have been of pride, but also of diversity and inclusion; of loyalty to country, but also of openness. We have celebrated the differences the world brings to our shores, our prairies, our purple mountain majesties.

But now, our language flirts with arrogance and aggression. Say it out loud, this new slogan: “America first!”. It reminds me of Shel Silverstein’s “Ladies First!” poem, the one about the little girl who demands to go first all the time. As you might guess, it doesn’t end well.

Say it again: “America first!”.

My daughter and I celebrating “Immigration Day”at Parkside Elementary School more than a decade ago

Does it feel right in your mouth? In your ears? Is this who you want to be?

Not me. It makes my bones heavy and my heart sag, this phrase. This way of being. This sending “back” of people who live among and with us, who came here for work or love or hope.

If the current political climate doesn’t hurt your heart (oh, please say it does), perhaps it should hurt your head. Both nationally and locally, we need immigrants. Just imagine Goshen without its many Latino-owned shops and restaurants. County-wide, we are short-handed in the labor market, with the RV industry in need of thousands of workers. At a recent luncheon in Goshen, the Chamber of Commerce president voiced concerns to Rep. Walorski about the potential negative economic impact widespread deportations could have in Elkhart County.

In short, forcing out significant numbers of our residents will weaken us. If we don’t stand up for and with our immigrant neighbors, we could lose them — some through deportation — and others because they seek out communities where they sense more support than we’ve mustered for them here.

Yes, now is the time to consider the “what-if’s” and “but-for’s” of our past.. and our future.

When Things Seem Impossible…

November 10, 2016 by Julia 7 Comments

The other morning, just a few days before the presidential election, I sat chatting and eating brunch with a group of friends in a cozy living room. As we discussed the possible impending results (none of us really believing, in that moment, that we would ever hear the words “President Trump“) a sub-plot made its way into the conversation: as we ate homemade muffins and scrambled eggs, a rustling sound periodically emanated from the chimney of a nearby wood stove. After a round of “what’s that??” the homeowners told us the unfortunate story of the trapped bird.

The wife, a new mother, no-doubt stewing in a brew of maternal instincts, was beside herself. “I just want it to die or go free. I can’t stand the suffering!!” she declared, hands over her face.

The husband, a competent carpenter, explained that due to the way the chimney was constructed, there was no way to reach the bird. He shifted in his chair and shrugged his shoulders regretfully.

“Can I try? Please?” one guest implored. “I’m pretty sure I can get it,” she said, noting her small hands and bird-loving spirit.

I confessed aloud to having emotionally removed myself from the bird after deciding its fate was sealed. I ate my muffin and offered sympathetic facial expressions to my more compassionate friends.

Together, several of them poked and prodded and twisted, finally adjusting the flue just right, allowing the small-handed, bird-loving friend to reach up towards the now frantically flapping wings. Black soot puffed out of the chimney and into the sunny air.

“I touched it!” she said.

A series of pauses, reaches, and flapping-wings ensued. After several failed attempts, we all joined in a discussion comparing the potential harm (both physical and psychological) that could befall the bird during the rescue effort, and the harm of letting it die slowly but without a massive predator-induced adrenaline rush.

I sipped my coffee and voted to let it be. Let it be. Let it be. You know the rest of the words. The rescue attempt made my heart beat too hard.

Another friend stepped up and added his animal-loving spirit and able hands to the mix: more tries, more flapping, more soot.

And then, finally…”I got it!”

“What?!” and “Really???” and “Oh my gosh!!!”

Someone jumped up to open the door. Cradling the bird in his hands, our friend stepped outside onto the second-floor porch and tossed it into the autumn sky. It soared. We cheered.

And that’s what hope and persistence can accomplish.

Even when things seem impossible.

Like when you’re a progressive in Indiana in November of 2016.