Malik, Amanda

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epublications@Marquette

Conversations on Jesuit Higher EducationVolume 39 Article 72-1-2011Coming Home: An Immersion ExperienceAmanda MalikFollow this and additional works at: http://epublications.marquette.edu/conversationsRecommended CitationMalik, Amanda (2011) "Coming Home: An Immersion Experience," Conversations on Jesuit Higher Education: Vol. 39, Article 7.Available at: http://epublications.marquette.edu/conversations/vol39/iss1/7The sun glints through the backseatwindow as I rest my chin in thepalm of my hand. The radio is off,and every passenger stares quietlyout at this New Jersey city as a vol-unteer coordinator turned tourguide narrates the urban landscapearound us.Driving down the main street of the waterfrontpast the aquarium and ballpark, a tall apartmentbuilding looms over us. Nobody walks in or out, andall the restaurants and shops on the first floor aredeserted. Further along we pass the Tweeter center,where I saw Brittney Spears at my first concert andwatched my first boyfriend graduate from highschool. I am familiar with these revitalized outskirtsof Camden, the fresh fringes of a wilted city. But aswe drive further down the same road, we cross intothe parts I have never seen, the parts I’m not quitesure I’m ready for.As we approach the other end of the waterfront,a silver pile rises in front of us, reflecting pieces ofthe sun. We turn down a side street that leadstowards the sewage plant at the edge of the water,which is where my own flushes from home aredeposited, and the smell becomes almost unbear-able. The plant faces the Philadelphia skyline, whereperfectly designed architecture pierces the sky, sep-arated from where we are by just a few hundredyards of dark cold water. In front of us on this sideis the massive mound of metal, the dirt and grimemuch more apparent up close. Small scraps havedrifted away and now float on the edge of the waterand the shoreline is black with pollution. A few fishcan be seendarting about,and we’re toldthey’re poison-ous from allthe toxicdebris in thewater, thoughthat doesn’tstop somer e s i d e n t sfrom eatingthem any-way. Whenyou’re hungry, . .anything will do.Next we head down Broadway, a street oncefamous for its shops and restaurants, where peoplecame to stroll on a Sunday afternoon. Now, most ofthe buildings are empty, and nobody is outside. Wedon’t pass a single up-and-running business.Instead, the street is dotted with superfund sites,fenced off and littered. Once the places where paintand dye factories stood, the lots have now been des-ignated by the government as too toxic to be occu-pied for the next hundred years. We turn left suddenly and enter the heart ofSouth Camden. Every other house is boarded up,and occasionally we pass entire blocks of desertedhomes. Thick iron bars guard the doors and win-dows. None of the yards have grass or trees, andeven the best-looking houses are sagging from theweight of poverty. Noticing a couple of boys kicking a can around18 ConversationsComing Home: AnImmersion Experience“You say you love the poor...”By Amanda Malik1Malik: Coming Home: An Immersion ExperiencePublished by e-Publications@Marquette, 2011the empty driveway of a deserted house, I can’t helpthinking of my own childhood, growing up in thelush suburb of Cherry Hill that is just minutes awayphysically, but light years socioeconomically.We pass Cathedral Kitchen, a free meal center that Iused to send sandwiches to for the poor but neveractually visited. I’m surprised by how nice and newit looks, as well as by the long line of diverse peo-ple waiting outside its doors. When we pull into the driveway at the RomeroCenter, the sun is fading and the air is still. Terrifiedexpressions fill the faces of my friends who can’tignore the siren wailing constantly for the ten min-utes we are in the parking lot. The building we arestaying in mimics a fortress, with brick walls andbarbed-wire fences. The front door boasts a compli-cated series of locks, and we are told not to openany of the first-floor windows because they are setto an alarm. But the mismatched couches andcheery paint that greet us in the living room providea kind of worn safety, contrasting fiercely with thestern exterior. Across the back wall is a quote fromArchbishop Romero; “You say you love the poor…name them.” A homeless shelterThe first day I am sent to a men’s homeless shel-ter with instructions not to wear anything form fit-ting so that the residents don’t stare. Sporting baggyjeans and an oversized hoodie, I am prepared for aday in the kitchen and shocked when the programdirector tells us we’ll be working the floor instead.As we enter the room where residents spend theirdays, very few look up or take notice of us. Thepalms of my hands are damp as I look around,unsure of where to go or who to talk to. When Ifinally pick a seat only one guy looks up and I grate-fully introduce myself despite the bitter scowl on hisface. Forcing him into conversation with me, othersslowly join in. Before long, I’ve incited a debateabout where to get the best cheesesteak in nearbyPhiladelphia. I listen eagerly to the opinions of fif-teen different men, one who includes clackety-clacksound effects of knives chopping steak, and all whoseem to have difficulty agreeing about anything. Conversations 19Once the places where paint and dye factories stood, the lotshave now been designated by the government as too toxic to be occupied for the next hundred years. 2Conversations on Jesuit Higher Education, Vol. 39, Iss. 1 [2011], Art. 7http://epublications.marquette.edu/conversations/vol39/iss1/7Back at the Romero Center, planned reflectionallows me time to think about the quote on the wall.While participating in a similar immersion trip theyear before, though I swung hammers and choppedwood with gusto, I had not met any of the people Isupposedly served. This time, I am determined toleave Camden with names of the people I have met.AIDSAt St. Francis AIDS House during lunch, Vince,a resident, talks so much that his plate’s still filledwith food long after the rest of us have finished. Hetells us about his boyfriend who’s currently in jail,but then points to a hickey on his neck to show he’snot letting that stop him from enjoying himself. “Youknow, I got boyfriends 365 days a year, 366 during20 Conversations3Malik: Coming Home: An Immersion ExperiencePublished by e-Publications@Marquette, 2011Conversations 21leap year!” He spends most of his time cracking jokesand laughing at himself, but when it comes to sex hebecomes very solemn. “Now, listen here girls. Wearcondoms. And if your boyfriend don’t wanna go buy‘em, you go buy ‘em. ‘Cause it ain’t fun when you gotAIDS. People look at you different’, they don’t wannaassociate themselves with you anymore.” When weleave he kisses us each on the cheek.At New Visions, a homeless day shelter rightdown the street from Cooper, it is not until the endof the day that I befriend Brian, who has been sit-ting with his back against the wall for most of theday. I am attempting to survey some uncooperativefellows when he calls me over with a wave of hishand. “You can survey me,” he says, but he beginstalking immediately so I never get the chance.“The guys here, they can get a bit out of hand.They get a little bit rowdy e’ery once in a while,angry at the world for what it’s done to them. Butthey all here for a reason – life was going along andthen somethin’ happened to ’em. Mostly drugs, butthat can happen to anyone. Look here, take Bruce.”He points to the man sitting mutely beside him. “Heused to be a schoolteacher, even won an award forteachin’, and now he’s here. No one’s safe fromdrugs, it’s so easy just to fall into the trap. And hereit’s so easy to get ’em. Truth is though, it’s not most-ly Camden folks who are buyin’ and usin’. It’s theoutsiders, from all these nice towns nearby, thatcome in for their fix when somethin’ goes bad athome. And then what do ya know, soon enoughthey end up here.”I nod sympathetically. I find myself opening up toBrian, telling him about a former classmate who diedof a heroin overdose after buying the drug in Camden. As he listens to my story, fear grows inhis eyes. “Too many people dyin’, outon the streets, all because of drugs. Iknow it’s gonna kill me, never knowwhen, but I just can’t stop.” With that,he goes on to tell me about his fami-ly, his 6’3” daughter who plays bas-ketball at Tennessee, his estranged wife who divorcedhim because of his cocaine habit, and his subsequentspiral into addiction. He beams with pride when hetalks about his daughter, tells me to look her up, butis crushed when he mentions how long it’s been sincehe’s seen her. He admits he’s been doing cocaine forfifteen years now, continually pushing his family awayfrom him and leaving him with nothing but the desireto get high. Putting Brian’s face to the problem makesdrug addiction seem less crazy than I previouslythought it was. Tent CityJamaica, as we are introduced to him, is thefearless leader of Tent City, a triangle-shaped lot dot-ted with blue and gray tarps just next to a highwayramp. As he shows us around, pointing out thedonated water reservoir,the central fire where mostof the cooking is done,and the various damage totents by the recent snow-falls, his chest swells with pride. He leads usthrough the camp to the community tent near theback, where weekly meetings are held and the writ-ten rules are nailed to a tree. He reads them aloud,explaining the importance of each one. “No lyin’,cause then there ain’t no trust. And no bringin’ yourtricks around here, cause this is our home, and weain’t gonna stand for that.” He tells us how important rules are in a commu-nity, how everything is bound to fall apart withoutthem. Jamaica is a stern leader, checking tents week-ly and prioritizing cleanliness. “We got intelligentpeople here, skilled people here, we’re just downon our luck. The only thing we have now, we haveour pride. And we stick with our pride. Our pridekeeps us going.”As we head out of Camden, driving towards thefreeway and Baltimore, we pass all the sites fromour tour earlier in the week. I wonder why it tookme until college, until I went away from home, to beable to take a closer look at the place where I grewup. I always knew Cherry Hill was full of wonderfulpeople, but I was a bit more skeptical about thereportedly drug-addicted residents of Camden. Yetnow I knew the names, faces, and stories of myhurting neighbors. I knew about Vince’s worseningAIDS, Bryan’s downhill struggle with cocaine, andJamaica’s desperate attempt to build a community ina place where so many had lost hope. More thananything, I felt their plea for presence, their need forengaging in conversation and sharing their storieswith someone who would listen and remember theirnames. Sending sandwiches along with our sewageto ease my conscious was not what they hadrequired all those years; it was a friend.  ■Amanda Malik is a sophomore at Loyola UniversityMaryland.We have our pride.4Conversations on Jesuit Higher Education, Vol. 39, Iss. 1 [2011], Art. 7http://epublications.marquette.edu/conversations/vol39/iss1/7

Coming Home: An Immersion Experience

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