Captain's Log: Day Four

I wake up. It’s 6am and one of my roommates has just turned on the light in our windowless basement room, making me squint as I try to throw a hand up in front of my face to block out the light. “Oh, sorry,” she says, “I thought you said I could turn on the light in the morning.” She was right, I had said the night before that I wouldn’t mind if she turned on the light to get ready before I woke up, but it still caught me off guard. I made sure my alarm was still set for 6:15 and quickly fell back asleep.

I wake up. It’s 6:15. I haphazardly grab for my cell phone, hoping to catch the buzzing, vibrating mess before the “tropical rhythm” tone attempts to deafen everyone within a 5 mile radius. I grab for my pants and throw them on, then walk up to the kitchen for breakfast. Some people are throwing together PB&J sandwiches for lunch while a few others flip pancakes. I’m not a morning person, and begin to eat the granola bar that I brought with me from my room downstairs. It won’t be long before we all start walking the 8 blocks to the Metro Station, where we’ll cram like sardines into the lightning-fast carpeted boxes that make me homesick for Boston’s “T.”

I wake up. Someone’s shaking me and it takes me a minute to realize that it’s Emily, one of my best friends who also came on the trip. “Joey… Joey…” she keeps saying and I can’t figure out why. “It’s almost our stop.” We’re on the Metro and I see anxious eyes staring at me, wondering if I’ll wake up in time to get off at our stop. I immediately perk up, trying to hide that fact that I was obviously fast asleep. The doors slide open and we are met with a gust of wind that would take Mary Poppins to the moon and back.

Soon we are walking by a public middle school and an elementary school. I think back to our walk home the previous day, when a bunch of children at the basketball court had shouted, “Look! WHITE PEOPLE!” Today we see a man standing just beside a “DARE to keep this Community Drug Free” sign smoking marijuana. I try to dissociate myself from the situation, surprised at the sheer irony, but at the same time think to myself that this community could easily mirror any number of school districts back in Massachusetts. We cross the street a few more times and we’re at the work site: a neighborhood of about 25 duplexes, four of which are in various phases of construction.

Warm faces greet us as our group of 20 students sign-in and make name tags out of scraps of duct tape. It’s gloomy out, and a little chilly, but I know from experience that by 10 or 11 the sun will be beating down full-force, coaxing diligent volunteers out of their sweatshirts and jackets. I’m working with Darcy today, who works through AmeriCorps and has been on this specific site since September. She is patient, encouraging, and good at her job. Together, our small sub-group hangs most of the dry wall in an unusually shaped basement closet.

I sneak into a storage trailer during lunch and read about the family that’s going to live in the house that we’re working on. It’s a mom, a dad, and their five kids. The short bios next to each of their pictures make them real for me. Two parents who work hard to make ends meet, volunteering on weekends. Kids trying hard in school, setting career goals, and still making time for family. For them, this house is a dream come true. I think about how so many other families need help too. I suddenly feel so grateful for my own house, my own family. I feel grateful for the houses that my friends have. So many houses, so many families, everything that goes into it. It’s overwhelming.

At lunch, picnic tables between houses fill with our group as well as the other Habitat volunteers. I anxiously wait as Adam, our group leader, brings out the sandwiches. I’m hoping for PB&SJ (peanut butter and strawberry jam – it’s my favorite). People talk about what they’re doing for the day, though for some it’s evident. Paint-smeared overalls or stained hands/hair means either painting or priming. Powdery hair or clothing = hanging drywall. Sunburn = working outside. Utility belt = drywall, framing, trimming, or siding (if no powdery hair, assume framing etc.).

The walk back to the Metro is like a zombie parade. Dirtied white people out of their element, marching solemnly through an impoverished neighborhood. We get to the Metro and this time the ride seems ten times longer. After what feels like ages, we emerge at the Petworth station and come out of the subway to see a cat fight between two teenage girls on the street. Instead of stopping them, onlookers egg them on. I think to myself: leave before it gets worse. I look to Angel, the other group leader, and she is already leading us away at a brisk pace. We walk past now-bustling barber shops, hair salons, and convenience stores.

We pass by the Wendy’s where I stopped to pee the day before, frustrated and confused that a “token” was required to use the bathroom. Kendra, my firend, jumps to the front of the line and frantically shouts “we need a bathroom token, how much?” thrusting a handful of money into the cashier’s face. The cashier was taken aback by the urgency in our question. He smiles, and says amused, “You don’t need to pay to use the bathroom.” We got the tiny glistening coins and seconds later the emergency was over. An ambulance screamed past outside and we continue the few blocks back to the hostel. Showers, food, and naps filled the minds of every group member. Exhausted, yet fulfilled, another work day has come to pass.

-Joey