...and Neither do I

This past week has been hectic. I battled through a series of engagements at the health center and the Duffy program that were extremely challenging for me. On Monday, I gave a presentation to the women in the Doula training session that's being offered through Head Start. I talked about massage therapy a little bit and then gave a demonstration, which was fun, even though I was really nervous. I felt good about it after it was over; the experience reinforced my admiration of Deana, who is my supervisor at the health center. She's my age, but graduated from Beloit last year and decided to stay here (rather than attend medical school) to create a community outreach program through BACHC. She's also one of the Doula teacher trainers. After the session, I told her I'd like to get more involved with that, and possibly incorporate my massage training into an outreach program. I think next semester I'll bring my massage table and off therapy through the African-American Infant Mortality Coalition.

Thursday was a big deal for the Duffy program. Each year, Mr. Duffy travels from his home in Florida to visit one of the community partnership sites. Guess which one he visited this year? My professor and another director of the LAP-C, the director of the BACHC, my supervisor and an AmericorpsVISTA member all visited the health center and went to lunch at Cafe Belwah; the restaurant around the corner from the college that looks so appetizing but is too expensive for me to even consider looking at. During lunch I had the opportunity to talk about my health literacy project, and it was received with enthusiasm. I spent most of lunch listening to everyone else in attendance and feeling very inspired.

Thursday night was the Duffy Colloquium;

Friday afternoon, I got a text message from Aria inviting me to Madison for Salsa dancing.

Chi Don't Dance

Last weekend, I was invited to visit a squat in Chicago with my new pal, Nik. It's not uncommon for Beloit students to go south on the weekend; in favorable traffic, Chicago is within an hour's drive.

Not fond of the Van Galder bus, I decide to search for a ride share on Craigslist.org, or as I prefer to call it, pimp my ride.

I secure two possibilities: a graduate student en route to Detroit on Friday, or a woman from Madison heading down for the weekend. The graduate student is relentlessly loyal and calls me several times to confirm, but cannot settle on a time of departure. Both eventually fall through.

Defeated, I tell Nik we'll have to take the bus. She surprises me with wonderful news: another Beloit graduate, Jacob, is driving through Beloit on the way to Chicago. There will be room for both of us and my bicycle.

"You'll love Jacob. He's really crazy. He's insane."

I eagerly agree to the ride.

Friday morning I awake stricken with the revelation that I'm terrified of riding in cars. There's even a word for this. It's called amaxophobia. What's more, this kid is insane.

"Didn't you hitch hiked across the country?" asks Nik. I am compelled to explain myself ad nauseam. Yes, I did hitch-hike. Mostly, I convinced people to let me drive. The fear worsened after my accident. No, it wasn't a car, but a moving vehicle. A friend; well, an irresponsible grifter who I wouldn't discount entirely; failed to use the brakes. I jumped, yes, but the outcome may have been much worse had I not. Insurance didn't cover it. I have scars!

Nik is calm. She simply says, "I'll stand by your decision, either way."

I call my mother. Usually the one to argue that I ought not walk while talking on a cell phone, I expect unwavering support from her in matters of precaution.

This time she says, "Grow up, honey. You only live once. Stop acting like you're ninety."

Reluctantly, I agree to the ride.

After my final class, I ride my bicycle to Nik's house; nearly colliding with this giant with wire-rimmed glasses. He arrives at Nik's house a few moments later.

"This is Jacob" Nik says, and we nod in amusement.

Jacob is one of those people who doesn't need a nickname. His actions are slow and intentional; his words are measured and steady. I immediately feel foolish for doubting his driving skills, but he offers to let me drive, anyway.

At a toll island on I-90 halfway between Beloit and Chicago, I pull into a parking space and sit mesmerized for a moment, taking in a landscape bathed in the last light of first Spring.

"Hope you guys don't mind, I just have to enjoy this" I say, and Nik and Jacob agree. Sometimes the midwest is ugly and industrial, and sometimes it is virgin and endless and serene.

Traffic is thick in the western suburbs and we don't arrive at the squat until the city lights have been turned up to full volume.

The squat sits on the edge of Logan Square; a green strip that divides yuppie north side nightlife from the increasingly gentrified Hispanic neighborhood of West Town. The division is obvious as I drive down Fullerton; the sidewalks alongside taquerias and mercados are travelled by hipsters in route to expensive bars in Wicker Park.

The squat is exactly as I expect; wedged in a block of unassuming shotgun houses on a quiet street lined with chain-link fences. It is a three-story house with a basement and a small front porch. The only thing making it unique is a huge banner hung from the rooftop that announces Una Cena Gratis Para La Communidad. Los Domingos. 8 P.M.

Inside, the house is quiet. We meet its residents gradually, as they scurry through the kitchen and out of darkened hallways. It is a cozy house; walls are covered with letters from all of the previous travelers that have stayed at the squat. The kitchen is filled with leftovers from dinner and the living room is stocked with books and zines and bicycle parts. Upstairs, where the party is taking place, there is a table full of zines and Palestinian crafts for sale, a cooler full of beer and a bucket of lemon ice from Jeff's job. Jeff is a Beloit student but he's lived at the squat since the beginning and still splits his time between Chicago and school.

There's three hundred people expected at the party but we've got competition with another community space, the locked out collective on Fullerton. Lowercase has invited BBU (a Chicago favorite: http://www.myspace.com/binladenblowinup) to play in the basement.

In the end, only about seventy people show up. I follow Nik downstairs where BBU is playing to a small but enthusiastic crowd. Lowercase is traditionally an alcohol-free space but tonight there's cheap beer. The band is great, and everyone's excited to hear them. I'm not sure anyone knew how well BBU would go over at a radical space with queer folks, but the mood is good.

I go to sleep early, around one in the morning, on a couch in the living room. The music from the basement pounding in my ears.

Saturday morning the lowercase residents offer to take Nik and I over to locked out. It is strange to meet so many people that know each other in the same city, because lately I've begun to feel like all my friends are strung out on opposite ends of a telephone line. Jeff buys us all paletas from a street vendor and we walk down to Mozart Park. Nik leaves Saturday afternoon for Beloit and I stay at lowercase another night.

The thing is, I don't really say much the entire weekend. Nik and I are both quieter than usual, and before she leaves I tell her what's on my mind. The experience at lowercase is really overwhelming to me. There are parts of it that feel familiar, being in a radical space after living on the Beloit campus all year. Parts of it are challenging, too, because I agree with a lot of the ideals being upheld at lowercase but there's some things that are uncomfortable to me, especially things that test my boundaries. Would I be willing to get arrested for someone I've just met? How far would I go to defend a community space? Then, there are things that remind me that there are aspects of my life that are not sustainable.

I am worried that I haven't been a great guest, but the next morning after I've left, Jeff sends me a text message to say I'm invited back any time. I leave Logan Square by way of Milwaukee Avenue and soon I'm downtown. I've got an hour before the train leaves, so I ride along the lakeshore, past the Field Museum and Soldier Field.

It feels so good to get on the train and sit in silence to reflect on the past two days. I sit across from Serendipity and go to work on a vegan banana muffin as the train leaves Ogilvy station. I take the Pacific Northwest line out of Chicago, and even though the landscape is still barren and winter grey, it is sunny (the forecast had called for rain) and all the little towns along the route are quaint. My heart is filled from my time at lowercase. It is the first moment I've had all year to fully realize that this is my home; this industrious corner of America. I remember riding a train out of Chicago one Spring morning three years ago, with Serendipity, and wondering then if I could ever love it here. I do, and it is a funny coincidence that this is where I've ended up, after all.

I get off the train at Harvard; the last stop.

Pie, Eh?

Zeke is obsessed with pie. I take note of this late one evening when I detect yet another delicious marriage of smells wafting from the warming oven. The next morning I awake to a mess of bowls, plates, knives and pans occupying the kitchen sink. Amanda, the RA for Haven Hall, is giving a tour to a group of anxious parents.

"Oh, it looks like Zeke's been at work on another one of his famous pies" I hear as I'm leaving for class.

Yesterday, I decide to stake out the kitchen, hoping to get a word with the accused.

As I'm perusing cupcake recipes, Zeke comes bounding into the room, straight for the third draw on the left.

"Stop right there" I say. "drop the rolling pin."

He stops short, opens the bottom cabinet, and produces The Joy of Cooking.

"Have you seen this book?" he says, cradling it like a sacred text. He opens it gingerly

"The index is full-color illustrations". We both gaze at it in awe for a moment, eyeing the tarte flambee.

"Want to make one?" he asks.

"I'm allergic to eggs" I admit, regretfully.

He offers a scornful glance.

"Fine; I'll look for a recipe without them" he concedes.

This morning, I awake to blueberry pie on the counter.

The note next to the plate says, one slice per person, please!

One slice? I think, and greedily cut myself an ample portion. I slink back into my room, eager to devour it.

A short while later, I see Zeke in the library.

"The pie was delicious" I tell him.

"Pie?" he says. His eyes get wide.

"Yeah, the one on the counter".

"Uh, I made a peach one for you; it's in the fridge. The one on the counter, with blueberries, has got eggs in it".

I stumble back to my room, full of moral conviction.

Me Mudé

Last weekend, I moved into Haven Hall

(from my previous address, 815 College Street).

I met my neighbor at the top of the stairs,

while carrying up a third round of boxes.

"Did Toby move out?" he asks, perplexed.

"I guess so" I shrug.

"So you're my new neighbor, then. I'm Zeke" he reaches for my free hand. "Sometimes I do handstands against the wall, so if it gets too noisy, don't be afraid to knock."

"Sure" I say, with a laugh.

A few days later, he walks into the bathroom while I'm brushing my teeth.

"The handstands gotten to you yet?"

"Haven't heard 'em" I say, still unconvinced.