"Who are you?"

I am new to this whole blogging scene, so you will have to be patient with me as I find my way around. I just thought this might be the best way to communicate to as many people as possible what I am living here without having to send crazy amounts of mass e-mails; and you don't even have to read this if you'd rather not.

I will have been in Philadelphia, living in Kensington (areas of Philadelphia are named by neighborhoods, which are usually based on a main street in the region, although I'm not sure how to explain places like Fishtown or Richmondville) for a month tomorrow. I have been working at the St. Francis Inn for almost that long, minus the time spent on retreat. Already, my worldview has shifted. We are surrounded by a type of poverty that I barely knew existed before coming here. People regularly sleep in front of or across the street from our house, as well as up the block near the Inn. We serve meals to people of varying levels of need: from the guy who goes to AA and NA meetings across the street and are trying to get their lives together, to the guy who carries all his earthly possessions in a single grocery bag so it's easier to move, to the woman with 5 kids all under the age of 10 who can't go home to get beaten anymore, to the mother and daughter who have a home but would rather hang out in and around the Inn all day to shoot the breeze and be rowdy with their friends on the avenue, to the guy who would really like to get his life together after leaving his cocaine addict girlfriend but can't quite get past his "mental problems," to the many who sacrifice groceries in order to feed their various addictions. There are hundreds of others, all with stories that are usually sad. It can be hard to have hope for these people-and most of our hope involves wanting to never see these people again because they would be able to survive without us. However, you can see the cycles our guests (what we call those who come to the Inn to eat) are in from week to week, and even from generation to generation. That's when it gets hard to hope.


I worked at the thrift store today (the Inn runs St. Benedict's Thrift Store on Girard Ave. and it is staffed by a rotation of people from the Inn, as well as a few ridiculous characters that live in the neighborhood and show up to help out on a daily basis-more about them later). Last Monday was the first time I had gone without the supervision of one of the Inn's team members, which was frightening yet exhilarating, and the worst thing I did was blow a fuse, rendering the rear of the already dimly-lit building pitch black. The best thing I did was set a record for daily totals: $170.

The thrift store is really not about profit, it is about making enough to pay the rent on the building. It is kept in business by crazy old women who come in multiple times a day buying the most random items possible. The Inn distributes clothing vouchers to guests 3 days a week that entitle them to a full set of clothing from "Benny's," so this is likely the reason the store is bothered with at all. There are no price tags; most of the regulars know shirts and pants to be $1 apiece, newer or heavier clothing items run from $2-3, and the rest of the inventory is subject to the pricing choices of the person who happens to be working that day. Unfortunately, the customers today disapproved of my pricing choices and decided that being rude and intimidating to me would be the best way to get a lower price. Were they ever wrong. One woman felt the need to lean across the desk where we price and bag purchases to make disparaging comments and, in her honor, the title of this entry is a quote from her. Bright points in the Benny's stint included a visit from the man who owns the deli next door, another man dropping off bags full of decades-old magazines (Popular Science and, I believe, Model Train Enthusiast) and one of the ridiculous characters' reactions to them, as well as a trip to a market with fresh fruit on the way home.

My life here has been incredible so far, although it has been rather ridiculous at times. There is so much more to tell, but not enough hours in the day to live it, and then write about all of it. I hope this has been a worthwhile tidbit, and know that there is much more to come.