INTERNSHIP: The Padre Needs to Sleep

Father Dahm was exhausted. As I spoke to him, his eyes closed, his mouth drooped open. He slouched in his chair. He shifted every few seconds, in an attempt to keep himself awake.

I kept expecting one of my questions to fall flat, for him to be snoring by the time it was his turn to speak. But somehow, he’d jolt awake and he’d answer one of my questions in a slow, careful voice. Worn out, but truthful.

His parish, one of the largest in Pilsen, is made up of a constituency that is 80% foreign-born. Of those, he estimates 50% are undocumented.  In Father Chuck’s twenty-three years as Parish Priest, he has built up a wealth of social services around the church. The church runs a thrift store, runs a food pantry, runs youth services. Human services are as big of a part of the church as religious services. But these days, the church is getting more pleas for assistance than it can deal with.

I guessed that that was what was exhausting Father Dahm—and I was partially right. He was also suffering from health problems which had left him weak. Still, he told me he had more and more people coming in, more and more people asking for help. And he just couldn’t provide that many people with assistance. The church has affordable housing, yes, but you need to make at least $20,000 to $22,000 a year to be able to qualify for the rent assistance. If you are making $250 a week, $1000 a month, there is no way you can afford rent like that. He talked about referring two or three men a week to a nearby men’s shelter—a shelter that has a waiting list, something Father Dahm called a joke—most of these men don’t even have phones.

I asked him what should be done and he just looked at me, sadly. I don’t know, he said, I don’t know. People need jobs, he said.

The more I talked to him, the more I realized that in these times, there were just too many people pleading for help from the church. People come, unable to find jobs, unable to pay their bills and he is powerless. Even if they get in to San Jose, they are soon out again. If they are looking for jobs, he tells them to make friends. What else can he do?

He was tired. 

INTERNSHIP: I am doing EXACTLY as I dreamed of doing

18 July 2009

My entries about Jorge Mujica and Marcos have been part of the incredible journey of writing my cover piece for StreetWise. It began with the vague statement from Suzanne that won my decision to join StreetWise staff—and we’d like to have a story on the immigrant homeless.

Suzanne’s initial idea was one about the Polish immigrant community. I expanded that—What about a series? I asked. One on each of the three largest immigrant groups in Chicago and how they deal with their homeless?

And Suzanne gave me the ok and I began researching the situation of homeless immigrants in the Latino, Polish and Indian immigrant communities in Chicago.

I have visited a shelter for Polish immigrants and it will be an amazing tale to tell. However, the story that has won my heart is the story on homelessness in the Latino community. Of course, those of you who know me know that I am already deeply involved in the immigration reform debates—a passion which began with my volunteer experience with undocumented migrants crossing the desert in Arizona. It was there that I decided on my idiosyncratic dream—to be a reporter coving issues of immigration.

For this story, I started with a discrepancy in numbers and facts. I began with a statistic—that the Chicago Coalition for the Homeless states that only 6% of the homeless in the city are Latino. This doesn’t mesh with other statistics. Chicago’s population is 25% Latino and studies show that both increased raids by border officials and the recession have impacted Latino families. Latino families are often poor and the parents are often working minimum-wage, low-skill jobs. So I was sure that there was something that the survey had missed.

Well, turns out, there are a lot of factors about the Latino community that the survey didn’t take into account. I learned these facts from my own observation and from talking to many people, many of them participants in the first forum on Latino homelessness entitled Todos Contamos, an under-noticed symposium held in April.

This is what I have learned. For the most part, Latinos in Chicago form a close-knit community that has learned to support each other when they can’t count on others. Often, when one family loses a home, instead of going to a homeless shelter, the family (or individual) simply moves in with another family. Though they are homeless, these displaced people aren’t counted in surveys. Homes across the community, however, are overcrowded by this “doubling up” causing safety hazards, increased stress, child abuse and increased domestic violence. And even if they are  out on the streets, most Latinos are mistrustful of government services—expecting that they do not qualify for aid, that the service will not have appropriate cultural and lingustic sensitivities and worst of all, terrified that they will be turned in. So instead, people are turning to churches and family members for help.

Chasing down this story has brought me to know the streets of Pilsen and Little Village, the Mexican communities of Chicago. Walking down them now involves waving to passersby and stopping in at my favorite places. I now know where ICE raids happened, where the activists hang out, and where gangs convene and where reform happens. The stories are being written with the help of an incredible cast of characters. Some are the angels who help the downtrodden in these communities and some are those who are homeless, struggling or losing their homes. Some are looking at the future with hope; others with trepidation. All of them have let me into their worlds.

I want to tell you there stories. In my article, they will be reduced to mere sentences or paragraphs. But here, in this forum, I can bring people to life.  I can introduce you to the dapper Puerto Rican who runs San Jose Obrero Mission or the quiet, yet radical priest from El Salvador who runs Our Lady of Guadelupe Anglican Catholic Mission on 26^th Street. I can introduce you to the people who are uncounted—the family with four children who have been receiving foreclosure notices and the man who loves America, yet lives in a downtown shelter. 

INTERNSHIP: Marcos

13 July 2009

Home Depot Lot, Little Village Chicago

Marcos was shy, but once he started talking his voice flowed forth. Though he never spoke rapidly, he never paused, acting as if the words were almost tumbling out. Sometimes, when people tell me their stories, I can hear the way they build themselves up as we go along. But with Marcos, I heard more and more truth and honesty the longer he spoke and I listened. Sometimes he looked away, sometimes I heard shame when he dropped his already quiet voice, but he kept talking.
We started by talking about his life.
He was from Houston, up here to work. He told me about the jobs, the occasional employers who fucked you over—giving you too little for difficult work. If that happened, he and his friends would leave, hiking back to the Home Depot lot to farm themselves out to someone with a little more integrity. If it got to 2 or 3 and he still hadn’t found work, he’d give up for the day: find a park and maybe drink (he indicated this to me with the shy hint of a hand motion, bottle to mouth but so subtle I might have missed it.)
Most employers are good though, he assured me. They offer you water; help you out a little.
Looking around at the others in the lot, he told me there were more guys than ever who had lost their jobs. He told me about how he at least had a skill—sometimes people who bring him along just to translate.
Where do you stay? I asked.
He stayed in the mission—a homeless shelter down town. He didn’t like it. They were too strict. And religion? Well, don’t get me wrong, he said. I love god. I do, I really do. But I get a note to say I am working so I don’t have to do that stuff. I like going to church, I do, I really do. But…their services…
They just don’t speak to you? I offered.
Yeah! You know.

*

Eventually, we wound around to the rest of his story, a part I was desperate to hear. By now, we had been chatting for a long time. The sun was hot. Cars drove in and out of the lot and the workers around us shifted as people took work and left it. Jorge was talking animatedly to the workers around, laughing and waving his hands. When a driver rolled down the window and asked for a plumber, Jorge took a break from talking to run around to clumps of workers, calling out for the plumber. Marcos and I continued to talk.

I made a lot of mistakes, he said. You know, when you’re young, you mess up.
He stopped looking at me except to glance. He rubbed the back of his sunburnt neck and twisted his arm behind his bag, still clutching the half eaten burger, poppyseeds on top.
He continued.
Marcos: My parents were from El Salvador. But I was born in Belize. They were refugees there. I was born there and two sisters were, too.
Me: How did they get over… to the US, I mean?
Marcos: They did what a lot of people did, they got into the country, then…it was different for El Salvadorans then because there was a war there. They did what Cubans do today.
Me: They applied for amnesty.
Marcos: Yeah…
Well, I was making a lot of poor decisions. I, he stopped, still pained at the closeness of it all. I had my green card pending.
It was new years and I went over the border with friends, to party. On new years, lots of people were coming back and forth, they were busy. But when it came my turn, I was.. I was intox… I was drunk and high on drugs.
He strung the last words together, barely audible, ashamed.
I was. And uh, I tried to cross the bridge but I was alone. I walked that long way alone, you know and not with a lot of people, so the lady asked me a lot of questions. And it was all cool until she asked for my card and I gave it to her and she put it in her computer and she said, you’re not in the system and then, they imprisoned me, detained me for seven months.
I was sent to Belize. I wasn’t from there. I hadn’t been there since I was six. Everybody heard the way I talked, said: ‘where you from, man?’
It was horrible. I am used to here where they say, ‘ah man, you want some water?’ There, they make you work, they mean. They drive you and the work is hard and you make no money. Nothing. Like twenty five cents. And then I lost my job. I lived there for a year and a half and I was like, ah man, I gotta get back.
Me: How did you do it?
Marcos: Well, Mexico’s got real strict borders, real strict you know. I got into Mexico because I speak Mexican Spanish—and Spanish from Belize. They are two different like dialects, you know? I grew my hair long, was all shaven. So I did that. And then, when I was North, I called my parents and they paid for me to cross the other border.
Me: How?
Marcos: By… uh… boat. They took me across the river.
I can’t complain, man. It was all, all was inside I could feel the fear inside me. But I’m lucky. He touched his round face. I never suffered, no one ever beat me. And then I come here and man, America is great. Man, I so lucky to be here man. So lucky. And all of that. It’s like a bad dream. Like a bad dream, seems so long ago. After seeing what it was like over there, I’m just happy to be here. It’s so much better.
I wasn’t sure what to say. Here was a shy and sweet man, living in a homeless shelter in Chicago, standing in a hot parking lot waiting for day labor jobs that aren’t coming and he is telling me America is great?
*

Oh man, I real shy.
Marcos looked bashfully at the ground and rocked from foot to foot. He didn’t want his picture taken until I convinced him that the reason I wanted his picture was because we talked. I could take a picture of any guest worker anywhere, but I wanted his because I knew his story, because he had shared it with me.
You do? He asked.
We compromised. A picture from the back was ok. He checked it out on my camera.
Me: Is Markos with a “c” or a “k”?
Marcos: With a “c”, but I like Mark.
Me: Can I ask you your last name? Do you feel comfortable…? I asked.
Marcos: Martinez. Yeah sure, and here. I’ll give you my cell phone number. I like what you do. A lot. I—how do you say it—uh, support what you doing, he said. I really do. Your helping all these people. That’s why I want to help.
His faith in my work was almost disconcerting. Who was I—this young kid, this girl— he had entrusted his story to?
Me: It’s people like you two who tell me your stories, I said.
He wrote his name on a receipt in blue ink. Tell me when it comes out, I’d like to see it.
It’ll be out August 7th, I said. You can get a copy… I stopped. Did he even have two dollars to spare? Why would I make him pay when I’d send a copy to someone I interviewed who had an address?
Absolutely, I said. I will give you a call. Absolutely.
It’s a promise I am not going to break.
*
You hit the golden nugget with that guy. Jorge says, as we get into the car. I am a little shocked.
Yeah, I say. I know.

INTERNSHIP: Jorge Mujica, community organizer and a journalist's best friend

13 July 2009

The Jumping Bean (Pilsen) to 26th Street (Little Village)

This is how I became famous during the immigration reform debates, Jorge Mujica said to me as we bumped along in his dilapidated greenish van, back windows curtain with moldy green curtains to match. I am always doing this kind of things for journalists. I may not be the person leading the press conference but they come to me, they say Jorge, what’s going on? And I tell them.

His hand holding the pipe was on the windowsill and the smell of sweet tobacco surrounded us as he continued: I used to be a reporter myself, so I understand, he said.

I was joining the ranks then, of journalists who couldn’t believe their luck at meeting Jorge Mujica. Himself a former undocumented immigrant, he has spent the past twenty years as a community leader in Latino Chicago and at the forefront of both Chicago and national immigration debates. He knew everything there is to know about the community and as we sat in a small Pilsen café over coffee and mint tea, he had to stop periodically to kiss old friends who wandered in and launch into jovial conversations in Spanish about their lives. He was just as friendly and open with me, his acquaintance of an hour- an intern who was questioning him about homelessness in the community for her StreetWise story. It was obvious why journalists loved him—he answered all my questions, peppering them with statistics and anecdotes. And he was willing to have an adventure like the one we were having right now.

Two minutes before, we had still been in that café. We were laughing, getting along well and talking about Obama’s visit to the same café on his “tour of a Chicago, Latino neighborhood”, when Jorge said, suddenly. What are you doing now? Want to go to 26^th street? C’mon, I’ll take you there.

Twenty-sixth Street, he told me, had the second largest economy in Chicago after Michigan Avenue and it was the Mexican shopping district of the Midwest. As we bumped along, he and I both knew why he was so popular with journalists. He didn’t just know about everyone and everything at the Jumping Bean; he also knew about everyone and everything in all of Pilsen and Little Village, Chicago’s Mexican areas.

We jolted down residential streets and talked about the labor unions he organized. He threw his slogan at me—We don’t want to be poor and documented any more than we want to be poor and undocumented. We need unions to fight for our rights.

As part of his community organizing, he had organized strikes against many of the buildings we passed. One was a tortilla factory. While striking there, he saw evidence of the huge market for the Mexican businesses in this area. We had trucks coming from all over: Iowa, Idaho, Ohio, he said. They could trust the tortillas in this factory and were buying them to bring them back to little Mexican restaurants and stores all over.

Shortly after our entrance through the historic Mexican arch that marked the beginning of 26^th Street commerce, I saw a tasty looking restaurant. Jorge casually said, oh we picketed that place for months.

Why? I asked.

They used a commercial Laundromat we were protesting, he said. They got so mad. We protested all these restaurants all over the city that used that service. One was Ditka's—a restaurant owned by the Bear’s manager. He was so mad—he was so mad I thought he’d shoot us.

He pointed out street vendors on every corner, peddling colorful wares. I thought them atmospheric.

We started seeing a bunch of them this last winter, he said. More and more. It’s a sign of how hard it is to find jobs. Used to be there’d be one every two or three blocks, now there are a couple selling things on every corner. Balloons, shaved ice, you name it.. what’s the word in English? You get the ice and put the stuff on top…

I think it’s SnoCone in English, I said, feeling a little ridiculous.

And right here, you see how the economy has hit this place. Two years ago, there was a waiting list to get a business here, maybe eighty business long. And now? Look—you see. He pointed out a particularly empty block. Three out of six stores stood vacant.

I know! he said.

Back to the vendors, he pointed at a cart selling hats and balloons outside of a barber shop.

You see, probably, that shop belongs to his cousin. And so he says, ok, ok, you can sell here. You see that all along. People selling everything—tamales, corn, shoes… look, there’s shoes.

He pointed to the man pushing a handcart with bells and ice cream. That’s more traditional, but there’s more of them, too, these days. 

We continued along the street until the small commerce ended—so no more prom dress stores, supermercados, or piñata-filled windows. We were in an industrial area. The pea green van squealed into a parking lot, to turn around, I assumed. But no, he turned in to home depot. Something clicked.

Is this the home depot where…? I began

Yes, he said. Look, over there.

We drove the ridiculous van straight towards a group of three men standing by a stop sign. It was hot, sun beating on them, their backpacks and their beers, though a cool breeze from the lake offered relief.

Are they waiting for work? I asked. But it’s so late in the day. It was already past four.

Jorge squealed up next to them and parked with a jolt.

How’s your Spanish? he asked.

Minimal, I said.

So, you speak like three words? he laughed his horsey laugh. Ola and amigo and…

… and gracias, I finished.

He laughed again and undeterred, he leapt out of the car speaking rapid and friendly Spanish, arms waving. He introduced me as the journalist--  ne habla espagnol.

Immediately a chubby man with a sweet, baby face switched to English, his language almost unaccented. I introduced myself.

I’m Brenna, I said.

Mark, he said. Marcos.

INTERNSHIP 6: In the Office with Ben

Most week days from June 18-July 3^rd, 2008

The StreetWise office soon feels like home. I share an office with Ben, a former Chicago Center student himself; he interned at StreetWise, got a job after a summer of work here and has now moved on to running the magazine. He writes articles, takes photos and most importantly designs the entirety of the magazine: managing content, finding photos, doing layout, editing stories to make them fit, designing a cover and each subsequent page. He is the one that gets the magazine to press each week and makes sure it’s good. While other people handle the selling of ads and the vendor aspect of the publication, Ben is the reason that there is a magazine to sell each week.

At first, the office was quiet. We smiled at each other, he got me set up with an internet hook up and gave me a few directions. It was peaceful. Often, besides Ryan, the desk attendant, we were the only two in the office so early. I enjoyed his presence as I spent my mornings researching. But one day we started talking and after that, we never wanted to stop.

Since then, Ben has become my unofficial guide to the city, to StreetWise, to working with the homeless, to the Chicago Center, to life in college and after college. He gives me the inside scoop on the dealings and the people at StreetWise. I have started to him each time I formulate a suspicion or an observation. I begin my sentences with “I have noticed Grace…” or “I was talking to the vendor…” or “When I am on the bus, I feel…” Inevitably, Ben has an explanation and has stories and understands completely where I am coming from. Yes, our backgrounds are similar. He, like me, is from Kansas and remember, he first came to StreetWise as an intern with the Chicago center. I have began to trust him like no other to understand where I am coming from and to explain what I am seeing.  When I mentioned to him one of my worst realizations in Chicago—that I am prone to revert to close minded stereotypes about people—he even had a name for it: Oh, he said, like it was utterly natural, something we all went through, you are just Caucasian-ing out.

That’s it, I thought, so simple and so true.

With him, I also have the remarkable friendship that I have with other journalists—friendships that I have found with my good friend Sonya, another journalism student, or John, a photographer. It is a friendship of people who love people, love their stories and are incredibly eager to share them. Ben wants to know about everyone that I have met and tells me incredible stories about the woman with the cigar store he wrote a story about once or the vendor who began to tell him about seeing Jesus in a cemetery. I return to the office bursting with new information and experiences and know that Ben will love to hear it all.

He and I also share a loving way of noticing other people’s quirks and loving the stories they create. He uses this loving sense of humor to let me know how to deal with the people around me. We laugh together when Suzanne, our editor, arrives in at two pm (Ben has been there since 8.15 am but accepts that Suzanne is just like that), when Greg talks about StreetWise TV (the weekly public access edition that has about two viewers but Greg adores), when Grace arrives with her perfectly coordinated outfit and perfectly portioned yuppie sack lunch or when I engage in a long, winding conversation with a vendor who normally does that, according to Ben.

Ben’s friendship with his restaurant recommendations, 411 on the workings of StreetWise, brilliant sense of humor and ear ready to listen has been an incredible part of my summer in Chicago. Yes, it has meant hours of office time spent in conversation and not necessarily in research. But at the same time, the knowledge I have accumulated could not be found anywhere.

INTERNSHIP 5: A Routine is Born

Or, The Self Indulgent Part you would probably skim in my autobiography where I record the minute details of my daily life that I will revel in reading in later years and will bore you to tears presently (You may skip this entry).

Most week days from June 18-July 3^rd, 2009

My first few weeks at Streetwise were spent in easy rhythm. While I love to explore and love adventure, there is a wonderful feeling to establishing a routine—especially one that makes you excited to get up every day.  I’d get up at six and pound along the lakeside, then loop behind the museum, through the ivied University of Chicago campus, then up shady residential streets back to Blackstone. A shower, the making of tea, the spreading of peanut butter on a banana, the frantic reading of as many news stories as I could fit in before I inevitably ran for the bus, clutching my pink mug, spilling hot tea and banging my laptop painfully against my hip. Sometimes I’d run, and just barely catch it. Sometimes I’d run and then wait for what seemed like hours and once was upward of twenty-five minutes. I used to question each bus driver—is their a scheduled time you come to this stop? No, was the general consensus.

The bus was usually pretty full and demographically consisted of entirely African-American passengers and me and maybe one other white person (usually a weird looking University of Chicago student or one of my fellow classmates at the Chicago Center headed to their respective internships.) At the 51^st Street Greenline stop, I’d hop off and ride the shaky escalator up to the platform.

I soon learned to stand pretty far down on the platform, because trains are shorter than you might think and I’d have to run for the very last car. There was another reason too—my first few days, I’d run to the last door of the car and it would open to reveal an emerging man-- a mountain of a man, slobbery and strange looking, in an electric wheelchair. He would rant loudly as he bumped onto the platform, looking like he might pitch forward and be left beached on the platform. I’d watch, breathless, hoping he wouldn’t fall until it got too disturbing for me. I haven’t seen him since, but then again, I make sure to stand farther up to platform. It may be a cruel choice but I was too disturbed by his angry talk and precarious bulk.

The ride is always smooth and lovely. I read my book—Always Running by Luis Rodriguez (a tale of barrio gang life in LA), The Autobiography of Malcolm X or Dreams of My Father by Barack Obama. Each one of those touches Chicago in a major way and in haunting prose helps me to understand my surroundings. My train passes Bronzeville—which is Chicago’s own version of the Harlem of New York and birthed and nutured such figures as Gwendolyn Brooks. I then enter the loop; tall buildings springing up on either side of me. The tea is finished, banana is consumed and I have moved on to scrawling in my journal when the train pulls into Ashland.

As I hop off onto the platform, I call my mom (it’s routine) and chat with her as I walk the four blocks, once sketchy which have now become familiar. I pass a park often filled with yelling children enrolled in summer sport’s camps, then enter a desolate stretch of warehouses populated by a strange assortment of people. I see dogs bathing in a pool in a dog daycare. I see the occasional business professional. I see a place to buy wholesale meats and outside of it is a truck where a Chicano couple sell breakfast to the workers there. Our conversations are often interrupted by a speeding train going over head. I have learned to keep talking

Soon, I arrive at the StreetWise Office (or warehouse), give my mom love, and buzz to be let in. 

INTERNSHIP 4: On the Beat at StreetWise

Working at StreetWise equals fulfillment of my own idiosyncratic dream: I am their immigration beat reporter. My editor let me develop my own series on homeless immigrants and the stories that I am writing now will become cover issues in the next month. Everything is self-initiated; I can call whomever, go wherever. I have the freedom to research and really know my topics and the freedom to travel the city and interview people from all different organizations and walks of life I have the press pass of being with an actual magazine. I only have to check-in occasionally with my editor. I have utter support from my editor and my co-workers and StreetWise is a base of incredible knowledgeable people from which to work.

I spend most of my time in pursuit of the stories I am writing, but when I am not doing that, I am taking the amazing assignments and opportunities handed to me by my editor. My third day, my editor had me connected to a phone conference with national advocates from immigration reform. I researched each participant beforehand and took frantic and voracious notes as I listened to them speak. After they spoke, the floor was opened for questions. The first question came from a reporter from NPR. I couldn’t believe it: I was in the same phone conference as NPR. The story I wrote about Obama’s meeting on immigration reform was spiced with quotes from these experts and was turned in the next day, for publication in the issue going to print early the next week. 

And my stories, oh my stories. I have traveled the city, uncovering truths and hearing people’s stories. I am writing about what happens to the homeless in the three largest immigrant communities in Chicago—Mexican (Chicago is the third largest Mexican city after Mexico City and LA), Polish and Indian. The more I discover, the more important these stories seem to me.

Yes, she trails off… it is a dream come true. And now that you all have the basics of what I am doing down, I can start describing the experiences I have had there. 

INTERNSHIP 3: Interview #3, In These Times

It had been roughly thirty seconds since the confirmation call from StreetWise to say that I would indeed be their intern and my phone rang.

Chicago number.

Hello? I said.

This is Joel Bleifuss, editor of In These Times, said the deep voice at the other end.

In These Times had been my number one place to intern. I had discovered this publication when first looking at Chicago internship sites back in February. I had been wowed immediately by their all star staff—Barbara Ehrenreich, my personal hero and author of the book Nickel and Dimed, all about minimum wage jobs in America, had started out writing for them. In These Times was Kurt Vonnegut’s favorite magazine. And the articles? Wow. Cleverly and articulately written, they were all about the issues in the world and in this country that I care most about—politics, injustice and the human casualties of it all.

When I had arrived in Chicago and contacted them, Mr. Bleifuss had apologetically told me that they already had enough interns for the summer and they wouldn’t be needing me. I was devastated. I e-mailed him my resume, all the same: Just in case, I said.

And now, it was Mr. Bleifuss on the other end. One of our interns had to leave, he said. Would you like the position?

I was shocked. This was not just an offer for an interview. This was an offer of a position at my dream internship. And literally thirty seconds before, I had accepted at StreetWise. My initial response was to thank him, but to explain the situation. I expressed regret, he sounded sad. I hung up.

I started to pace. Had I really just hung up on In These Times? I called the Chicago Center and asked for their advice. See if you can interview there all the same, Althea said, Go check it out.

I called Mr. Bleifuss back. When are you free? I asked. Can we talk possibilities?

Anytime today, he said.

I hung up, rushed to get ready, looked up directions and I was off.

*

When I arrived at the site, I called my journalism advisor at KU before I went in. I also called my mom. I agreed to call them back after I had interviewed.

I entered the dusty hallway sandwiched next to a discount clothing store. I almost missed it, except for the peeling letters that said In This Times on the glass door. Surrounding me were large cardboard boxes, stuffed with copies of the magazine. Up until now, I had only seen it online. Now, I saw the beautiful copies in person. They were wonderful, so much prettier than StreetWise, I thought wistfully, flipping through one.

I climbed up the rickety stairs and entered a space just like how I imagined it would be. Shelves were stacked with books I lusted after: alternative titles, journalistic accounts of injustice and human rights cases. Other shelves held copy after copy of the magazine. Someone’s bike was parked in the corner. Incredible posters of past events and local art shows graced the walls. I wandered the sunlit corridor until I stumbled upon Mr. Bleifuss’ office.

Mr. Bleifuss is an academic, a former reader from Colombia, Missouri, where he was a sociology professor. He became editor several years ago. He spoke with a slight lisp and seemed eager for me to start as soon as possible, barely skimming the resume and work samples I handed him.

He spoke of the magazine’s projects—a companion magazine about immigration and worker’s rights in Spanish (my eyes lit up—I’m your girl, I think I said—exactly what I said at StreetWise.)  He spoke about the other interns—assembled from the best schools in the nation. I was a little awed to be counted among them.

But, all the same, I had a little bit of a sinking feeling. I wanted so much to intern here; to be amongst the other hotshot interns and to have In These Times glowing on my resume. But at the same time, the more I talked to him, the more I realized that the kind of work I would be doing, while it would be for an exciting magazine, would not be inherently exciting. I’d be reviewing books occasionally, but mostly, I’d be proof reading the work of others. I’d be expected to blog a little, but I doubted very much that anyone would read it. Even Mr. Bleifuss himself seemed to only be including the blog component to keep up with these modern times, he even said he didn’t care much for it.

When I talked to another intern, she confirmed this thought.

I wandered away, shocked at the feelings that were swirling in my stomach. I had been offered my dream internship and my heart told me to take the one at a low-budget street paper instead.

*

I had the weekend to decide. I flirted with doing both for awhile—one day a week at In These Times, just to be in that climate and to get the name on my resume. But in my heart, I knew that wasn’t the ticket. I had a learned a hard lesson about overbooking myself last semester and I didn’t want to let anyone down again. I needed to throw myself into whatever internship I decided to do. Philipp, my room mate, counseled me to do the same, pointing out that if anyone asked, I would have to explain how little time I spent at each site.

And so, Monday morning, I called Joel Bleifuss at In These Times and my friend Gabriel Piemonte at The Hyde Park Herald. I left messages and penned a e-mail to each. I’d be going with StreetWise, I said, but it was a hard decision. Neither of them ever got back to me and I don’t really blame them. One little intern who says no isn’t that important in the long run to the running of a magazine. I am sure they were each a little bit miffed and each very busy.

And soon, I’d be busy myself. Because I had just made one of the best decisions of my life. 

Internship: Interview 1

All signs said no when I left Blackstone for my first interview. It was starting to rain and you could practically see steam rising from me I was so upset. I had spoken to my top three internship sites earlier that morning and each one had told me they were full up to their quota of interns-- paid or unpaid. Most let me know I was late in asking, which was the most frustrating part because I had been advised by the staff at the Chicago center to wait until now to contact anyone. 

The storm clouds were as dark as my mood and flustered, I had left the house with neither coat nor umbrella. I stood at the bus stop in heels and dress, ranting my woes to my sympathetic mom. The phone was getting poor reception and I had to practically shout to make myself heard over the rowdy crowd of high schoolers. Just then, something other than raindrops fell from the sky. Bird shit, landing squarely on my bag. 

Just then, the bus pulled up and I jostled on amongst the high schoolers. Plopping into a seat, I found a wet wipe and began furiously scrubbing the white smear off of the black bag. A sinking thought invaded my inner dialogue-- was it on my back, too? I looked around the bus. Well, I concluded grimly, at least I'll make some kids laugh.

"'Scuse me," I said, tapping the shoulder of the nearest fifteen-year-old. "Do I have bird shit on my back?" 

"Nah, nah," he managed before exploding into laughter.

Things Can't Get Worse

At the train station, rain began to fall in sheets. As the rain fell, I decided just to enjoy my luck. I mean, it'd make a good story, right?

The train ride was uneventful, until I descended at my stop. Could this be real? I wondered. A man leered at me as I maneuvered the steep metal stairs in my retro heels. I was in what looked like an industrial wasteland. But the intersection seemed right. I walked along under the El tracks. I was in a meat packing district and it was mostly abandoned-- except for 25 dogs who charged at me from behind a fence. Luckily, the motley crew then bedan to wag tails and I saw a swimming pool, reassuring me that it was a doggy daycare and not a training facility for killers. It was still raining and my delicate sweater and curled hair were damp and lank. Finally, on a warehouse not unlike the others I walked past, I saw a sign for Streetwise. I rang the bell. Here goes nothing, I thought. 

The Clouds Dissipate

From the second a smiling man welcomed me in, things took a dramatically different course. I was ushered into the office of Ben Cook. He had originally interned with Streetwise as a student in the Chicago Center program. Now, he had a full time position there.

Ben had brown eyes and a friendly manner. We got to talking and soon learned that the Chicago Center was far from our only connection. We had the same home state and when I confessed my rejections from the other sites, he nodded. "That was me, too," he said. "I wanted to work at In These Times."

That had been my No. 1 choice, too. 

After chatting with Ben, I felt considerably better. Flipping through old issues of Streetwise, I thought about how similar Ben and I were. If he had liked the internship so much that he had accepted a job here, it could be great for me, too. I began to absorb my rather unconventional setting. The office was wide and spacious, constructed by thin walls and dividers set up in the open space of the warehouse. The mixed crowd reflected the paper's mission. While Streetwise has a professional staff, its vendors are homeless or those at risk of being homeless. There was a vendor's meeting going on in a big room next door, so while half of the people I saw looked like typical office staff, dressed up in business casual, the other kind were (literally) off of the streets. 

I continued flipping through the magazine with a rather critical eye until my editor burst in. Her huge, circular glasses and frizzy hair gave her a kooky, unkempt appearance. She started chatting right away and I couldn't deny she was friendly, even if I wasn't exactly sure what she was saying. I nodded and smiled. After getting me a glass of water from a kitchen where huge, steaming trays of lasagna were currently being dished out to vendors and finding me a chair, the interview began. 

You know the type of interview, or indeed, conversation where you want so desperately to like the program-- you feel like you are trying so hard to meet them halfway and you feel like you should like it and yet, they offer absolutely nothing to make you excited about? Well, the first part of that was true. I was trying so hard to like it, but just not convinced. Then, the editor, in her goofy way, starts flipping through the list of potential stories. We need a person to write a story on... homeless immigrants. 

The magic key. I could not fully express my joy, my enthusiasm, my shock. This presented the chance to actually write about my idiosyncratic field-- my dream is to be a reporter on issues of immigration. And even better-- Streetwise would let me write about these topics AND to be published? 

The answer was yes right then but I listened joyously as she went on to explain how certain ethnic aid groups provide special services to their populations-- some are given special holiday food, etc. Many of the immigrant homeless are manual laborers, cut in the recession. Some, however, are driven to drink by loneliness. Sometimes, Suzanne told me, the aid societies even send an immigrant home. 

I was sold. The chance to report a story like that? Once in a lifetime. 

And so I left. As I walked past the dogs, I waved. I took photos of the El clattering above me. Well, it wasn't how I had envisioned an internship-- but it would make a good story.