Let's Listen to the Noise: Day 1 & 2

This campus view...

Long post ahead!

JVC Silent Retreat is on the horizon. Get it? Like the picture above! Haha... hah... ha... On to serious stuff. The Jesuits that have supported us recommended that we take some time to be comfortable with silence in preparation. So what did I do in response? I decided to make as much noise as possible this past weekend.

I'm not uncomfortable with silence. I actually love silence. It allows me to think and find my personal safe haven. Life tends to be noisy and a lot of the noise tends to be disingenuous. Most of the time, I believe people tend to make noise so that they don't have to feel the real weight of the silence. But, this past weekend I found myself in the middle of noise.

It will ALWAYS be Sears Tower

I haven't been in Chicago for 5 months. I have missed the noise, the people, the walking, the food, the public transit, the culture, the friends, the neighborhoods, the university, the suburbs and the lake. Pretty much everything about the Windy City (I missed Chiberia season so hah). Of course I squeezed as much as I can.

Day 1 just involved taking the bus to Chicago. Nothing beats seeing the Chicago skyline at night. I was coming home. I stayed at my friends' apartment in Lakeview. Nikki was my roommate for three years and I've known Andrew since highschool. It was nice to just kick back and talk that first night/day. We talked about where we're headed, what we're doing, and of course Game of Thrones. As par for the course, Nikki and I ended up watching an episode of Futurama before we both left Friday morning. It's funny how easily we fall back into old habits.

The social justice bug has me.

Friday morning, I went back to campus to see some of my old co-workers and my mentors. I have been blessed to meet some amazing professors at Loyola. Dr. Garbarino invited me to be his guest at the Center for the Human Rights of Children's conference on the protection of children from corporal punishment. This was never an issue I had considered before, but after listening to psychologists and neurobiologists discuss the distinctions of discipline vs punishment, the neurochemistry of cortisol levels in children who are spanked, and false notions of the advantages of corporal punishment, I became convinced that corporal punishment should be more openly discussed in our society. I have missed the university setting where you can just hear about issues that you would not regularly encounter.

Afterward, Dr. Garbarino and I had a chance for a quick conversation. I spoke of how much I have changed since JVC and how thankful I was that his class opened me up to global issues of social justice. He spoke of how he was nominated for a university Ignatian teaching award and how as part of his talk about Ignatian values he mentioned a senior in his class that ended up doing JVC because that senior learned about stories of social injustice. Guess who that senior was? Dr. Garbarino spoke of how he got the impression that I am a lot more centered now. I'm not sure if centered would be the word I would use. I have felt de-centered, but I feel more willing to tackle whatever confusion I may have.

Next, I went back to my lab and spoke to Ro and John. I worked with Ro for two and a half years and John was my Biochemistry TA. It's funny. Chemistry has its own language. Being back made me realize one thing: I'm still a chemist at heart. Discussing the progress of the project and giving my ideas about hydrolyzation, auto-fluorescence, and protein chemistry actually felt familiar. I have been out of touch with that side of me that it felt good to use a language I hadn't used in the past year.

After going to lab, I went to visit Dr. Vigen. I credit Dr. Vigen as the first professor to set me on my path as a socially conscious individual. During my second year in college, I went on a medical trip to Honduras. There, I remember a woman who had a leg wound that had gone necrotic. She had two options: 1) to get her leg amputated or 2) to go home and die. She chose to go home because if she chose to have her leg amputated she would have ruined her family. This shocked and traumatized me. For a year, I no longer knew if I wanted to become a doctor. It would have been easy for me to pursue my love of biochemical research. But, I ended up in Dr. Vigen's theology of healthcare. In that class, I began the path of understanding how to accompany people in the path of suffering through the words of Paul Farmer, Anne Fadiman, Arthur Kleinman, and Atul Gawande. A lot of my conversation with Dr. Vigen became about accompaniment, my own growth through JVC, and how I can use my perspective to better my path in healthcare. In the end, all I could say was thank you for what she helped me become.

I finished my time with a two hour conversation with Dr. Olsen and Dr. Dale. (Dr. Olsen is my biochemistry mentor who has helped me develop into the kind of analytical thinker that I am today; Dr. Dale is a lab collaborator that I worked with during my last undergraduate year). A lot of our discussion revolved around what kind of scientist I wanted to become and the change that is happening around Loyola. I became aware of the tension between teaching and research at the university level. The same tension they spoke of is the same tension I am becoming more aware of when I think of myself as a clinician versus a scientist. I still have no answers, but I did come to the realization that I love research. I curse Dr. Olsen's tutelage because that's one more thing that I want to pursue. (Geeknote, Dr. Olsen talked about the new Biochemistry discussion class for majors that revolved around paper discussions, 3D molecular modeling, and homology modeling; I was actually annoyed that my Biochemistry discussion did not involve any of that; Dr. Olsen did his job in turning me into a Biochemistry nerd). But, science is cool so I can't be that mad.

I was unable to meet up with Dr. Vaillancourt or Dr. Parks who developed my notions of aesthetics and ethics respectively, but it was already a full day so I went back to the apartment to take a nap.

Of course, the noise didn't end. I ended up going to drinks with a fellow JV in Chicago. We spent two and a half hours talking about a myriad number of things. We spoke about our respective families (25 cousins vs 16 cousins), our high school days (pop culture nerd vs social justice nerd), our mutual exhaustion over social work, our experiences with JV community life, our respective universities' politics, our hopes for nationwide politics, our mentors in college, our mutual idolization of Paul Farmer, my gripes with idealism, her passion for social justice, my plans for medical school, her plans for grad school/career, my development as a chemist, her experience as a journalist, my excitement about Detroit, her growing love for Chicago, and pretty much anything we could think of. All in all, it was a pretty good conversation about real experiences. That conversation became the seeds of this post. (Sidenote, I found out my hometown has a brewery!)

"A little faith goes a long way."

As the night was ending and she went back to her apartment, I had time to be quiet and reflect. What would a Chicago trip be without a CTA mishap? As par for the course, my connecting bus never came. For any future Chicagoan, get lost as often as possible because that's how you get to know the city! I ended up walking the last two and a half miles from Roscoe Village to Lakeview. I love the CTA! But that walk made me think of my first two days back in Chicago.

What is the noise in our lives? They tend to pull us in different directions. Should I care about global issues or urban issues in my hometown? How do I deal with the suffering and trauma that I see? Do I want to be a clinician or a researcher? Am I on the path of becoming an activist or a scientist? Being pulled in so many directions is beautiful. It made me realize how blessed I am. I have had mentors, friends, and family that have developed who I am to the point where I feel like I have a rich life. The noise has made me an aware advocate, a curious chemist, an imaginative artist, a caring friend, a kind human and a romantic Chicagoan. I love who I'm becoming. The noise nurtures us when we're lucky and aware enough to use the noise to our advantage. Creating silence when we're lucky allows us to become aware to what the noise means. They work hand-in-hand.

The above billboard made me chuckle because of its initial dig on the Cubs. I'm a Cubs fan so of course all I have is faith that someday, one day, all the MLB teams will pity us and let us win a World Series. One can hope right? Upon further reflection, I'm coming to the conclusion that faith will carry us where we have to go. I'm not talking about faith in God (I don't think I'll ever be comfortable with any notion of god or God), but faith in love and in life. If we have faith that love is beautiful, that life will nourish us, we can make a home between the noise and the silence.

Story time!

Journal screenshot #1

A few nights ago I decided to do lead a community night around story telling. I love stories. I'll let a more eloquent writer describe stories better than I ever could:

You are your stories. You are the product of all the stories you have heard and live - and of many that you have never heard. They have shaped how you see yourself, the world, and your place in it. Your first great storytellers were home, school, popular culture, and, perhaps, church. Knowing and embracing healthy stories are crucial to living rightly and well. - Daniel Taylor

That night got me thinking of how many stories we carry everyday from our first memories, our  feared traumas, and our whimsical dreams. I began wondering why at once these stories are so easy to hide but also so easy to share. What makes us fearful and needy in letting others see our vulnerabilities or our inspirations? Let me tell you about the first artist I met.

I love art. I like to write and to draw. My writing is so-so, but if I could show some brashness, I think I'm a damned good artist. I wish I could play the piano or the violin, but I'll have to accept my inadequacy and listen on in jealousy. I don't think I realized until this year why I was so drawn to notions of creativity. I can give some very pretentious and idealistic blabber about Plato's Symposium or Romantic poets like Yeats. Fact is, that doesn't really touch on a few things.

Journal screenshot #2

I am lucky enough to call myself a LaSallian (I didn't graduate as one, but I grew up as one so I win). Funny story on my path becoming a LaSallian: I was a dumb kid. Like really dumb. I spent most of my time watching TV as a child. I remember a lot of Flintstones and maybe some show about other cavemen and dinosaurs. School was never a priority. To start kindergarten in La Salle Greenhills, a prospective student had to pass an initial interview. I remember my mom's anxiety over the fact that I barely knew my colors and didn't care about letters or numbers. We were driving to the school and I didn't even know what colors were on the stop lights or what they meant. Again, dumb kid. There was another kid at the interview with flash cards and one of those fancy educational computers. Yep, I was gonna bomb that interview; I believe I did. But, as with most things in the Philippines, my mom had a friend whose friend was friends with a school administrator. Dumb kid became a LaSallian! Nepotism for the win! Not proud of it, but I believe I made the best out of it. (Side note, what's the point of interviews for children? I didn't care then, but I eventually blossomed into a damned good scholar. Just give children the opportunity to achieve!).

The school was amazing. Not only did they give me a foundation that allowed me to succeed once I moved to the United States, but they taught me to open my eyes. As part of my schooling, we went on several "outreach" trips. As a kid, I took this as a break away from the monotony of grammar and math. As an adult, I cherish these trips because they taught me what being human means.

Journal screenshot #3

The trips took on many different forms. A few trips involved going to retirement homes. In the Philippines, the norm is for the elderly to live with their children. Generally, if an elder lived in a retirement home it would reflect the reality that they may not have a family (I'm generalizing, but that's how I perceived it as a child). From these souls, I learned how to listen.

Some trips involved going to public schools and orphanages. In the Philippines, the school system was/is(?) terrible. Going to a private school with the social capital that a student had automatically meant that they were set for a better paying job down the line. Public schools were underfunded. Also, there is a huge population of homeless people in Manila. When worst comes to worst, a lot of these children would be orphaned and funneled into a terrible school system. What was I to think of this reality as a child? I had a driver to drive me to school, a maid to cook my meals, AC to keep me cool, and a school to truly educate me. It would have been so easy to shut myself off and believe in my socioeconomic and therefore "intrinsic" superiority. No. My school refused to let that happen.

The value of those outreach programs were to say, "hey, before you get a big head, meet these kids first!" How I loved it. The magic of children is that they don't care who they play with as long as they get to play. Money, education, "class," and status don't matter. I got to see them as children that laughed and played rather than what children of privilege might see: poverty, dirt, and disease. That was my first memories of meeting people where they are at rather than seeing people with how society has been trained to perceive them.

Journal screenshot #4

The main reason I'm writing this is because of my experience with a school for the blind. So what do children think of people with disabilities? Well, some would say people with disabilities are broken, or missing something, or incomplete. Kids can be really mean. I remember sitting there and thinking "I'm lucky to be able to see!" I could not imagine a life without eyesight and I was afraid. I probably pitied them deep down. But, what would you expect from a sheltered and privileged brat?

Well how wrong I was! At that school, I was taught how to read braille. I was showed how the blind can develop their senses to be sharper and are better able to doing more things than I could have imagined. My imagination was severely lacking in the power of human creativity and will. I remember one experience brought me to tears.

We came to a room with a man sitting next to his piano. He explained how he had nubs on the keys so that he could align himself when he played. He proceeded to wow me with the music that he created. I have no musical bone in my body and am jealous of any that can play an instrument. There I was, a kid who thought he was better because he was healthy and I was floored by a blind man playing the piano. To this day, I still remember the feeling of being lifted up and nearly brought to tears by that man's creativity. What I learned that day and have kept on learning throughout my life is that creativity doesn't give a crap about what's "wrong" with people. Nothing's wrong with anybody. People are people and creativity just does what creativity does: it creates.

To Pens, Magic Wands, and TARDISes (?)

Shiny Loyola folder with shiny pens.

I bought myself a birthday gift: Marina Keegan's The Opposite of Loneliness and two shiny Parker Jotters. I plan on getting to Marina's book once I've read more of it. Let's get to the shiny things! I like nice and shiny things. I'm like a cat; shiny things that move attract my attention. Did I mention they're shiny? I LOVE shiny things.

I made dinner last night. Just a simple lentil, garbanzo bean, kale, tomato, and asparagus salad. No big. Then Sarah left for class, Elizabeth went for a run, and Kevin was still at work. Of course, I wanted to test out my new shiny pens. They were just crying to be written with! I made myself a nice cocktail of Two James gin, homemade ginger simple syrup, and tonic water. I curled up in the comfiest chair in the house and I wrote. I don't think I journaled like I did last night in a long while. I wrote pages of nonsense, life, romance, and of course pens.

There's something about pens. I think I narrowed it down to a few things. One, I'm kind of vain. I like details about how I carry myself. I think it's partly the Catholic school upbringing. We had a class about etiquette and appearance yearly for crying out loud. We talked about being presentable and respectable at all times. Surprisingly, I took it seriously. Now, I'm neurotic and OCD about certain things. Pens, like shoes or watches, are one of those personal flourishes and touches that make me smile. So pens are an extravagance I like to indulge in (actually just shiny things in general). Sue me for being vain.

Most importantly though, I wrote about the romance of pens and words. I moved to the United States when I was 12 and had 5 months off of school. Of course I had no friends. You expect me to be outside, all whatever my weight was, all pre-teen awkwardness and all of my discomfort with English? Heck no! I had internet, but my friends from home were asleep when I was awake and vice versa. My friends were Raistlin Majere, Tasslehoff Burrfoot, Aragorn Elassar, Bilbo Baggins, Harry Potter, and Hermione Granger. I probably re-read the Dragonlance, Lord of the Rings, and Harry Potter books several times over that summer. The written word allowed my childhood self to have a safe haven away from the confusion, discomfort, awkwardness, and angst of pre-teen all-over crappiness.

I think we're all magical and our magic is in words. The written word allows thinkers and artists like Plato, Flaubert, Yeats, Tolkien, McCarthy, Martin, Rowling, Cronin, and Keegan to transmit their words and thoughts through space and time, life and death. It allows people to be inspired with thoughts of morality and progress, children to dream about being wizards and time lords, adults to cry over lost friends and missed potentials, and for all to share their insecurities and vulnerabilities. I've read friends' blogs that make me smile and chuckle. I've read stories of Harry Potter, Frodo Baggins, and the Stark family that frustrated and excited me. I've read the words of Dr. Paul Farmer and Dr. Atul Gawande that have inspired me to do and be better.

I believe in the magic of words because they transport us and allow us to imagine a better world and our better selves. They allow us to communicate and to feel things from those that have passed, those that are far away, and those that we would not meet in our daily lives. Our words can become our legacy for the children that will come after we are long gone. As long as we write and communicate, we are magical creatures.

Harry Potter has his 11" holly wand with a Phoenix feather core. The Doctor has his blue police box TARDIS of wibbly wobbly timey wimey stuff. I have two stainless steel pens powered by a pressurized black ink tube. To me, a pen is as magical as a wand and as powerful as a TARDIS (what began as the oral tradition became written became published and is now the digital word, but I find pen and paper to be my instruments of choice - I know the irony of saying that as I type so shush!) because it allows all of us to share in what makes us, well, us. In the end, what's your magic wand made of or what shape does your TARDIS take? Well, whatever. We're all wizards and time lords.

This is Why I Cook

I'm becoming my mom: a neurotic controlling very particular about details and having my own space version of my mom. Yep. Thanks mom!

This past weekend, my community hosted the annual JVC Midwest prom. It was a nice way to blow off steam and kind of just be goofy for a weekend. As part of the festivities, we provided dinner for all our guests. Of course, as someone who's obsessed with cooking and good cooking, I volunteered to cook this meal. I thought, hey, I cook for 4 people often enough. How much harder would it be for 25 people? I thought, hey, my mom or my aunt does it regularly enough for parties. How much harder would it be when I'm in my 20s and know how to cook? Yeah, so sue me for being naïve.

So I laid out this menu in my head of our community dinner staples: squash casserole, mac and cheese, chili, dumpling soup, and risotto. I said to myself, I got this. Preparations started when Kevin went grocery shopping on Wednesday. I don't think any of us had ever seen our refrigerator and pantry that full. In college, I was lucky to have some bananas, pasta sauce, eggs, pasta, ramen, and baaaaaaaaaaaccooooooon in my side of the kitchen. We had 4 dozen eggs, two bags of spinach and salad greens, a bundle of asparagus, a bag of brussel sprouts, a box of mushrooms, 4 bags of cheese, a bag of carrots, a bag of celery, 4 cans of beans, two heads of broccoli, 6 sweet peppers, 3 bags of onions, a bundle of kale, 2 bulbs of fresh garlic, 3 large sweet potatoes, 10 lb of regular potatoes, 4 cans of tomato sauce, 2 cans of diced tomatoes, half a gallon of milk, 2 extra-large boxes of pasta, a box of Arborio rice, a club-sized butternut squash, and a partridge in a pear tree…  Even with that mountain of food, I was still brash about handling it all myself. 

Cooking began Thursday night to prep the casseroles so I can just pop it in the oven on Saturday. After two and a half hours of cooking, I was already tired of it, but I still looked forward to finish up on Saturday. On Saturday, I think I finished up cooking everything in about another three hours of kitchen time. So what did I learn? Food for 25 people is a LOT. I love cooking. I'm a very particular and detailed human being. I love stepwise organization. The kitchen became my sanctuary from chaos. You would think that the process would be messy, but I found that I was very methodical in the process. The kitchen became my lab or my OR. I controlled everything and it was a good change of pace when I control nothing at work.

Growing up, my mom always cooked. It's not uncommon for my mom to be awake at 5 am in the morning prepping for parties. For appetizers my mom would have homemade salsa, guacamole, garlic cheese, and artichoke dips. For the main course she would cook seafood mornay, salpicao, beef steak, chicken adobo, turkeys, stuffing, and whatever the occasion might call. For desserts she would bake food for the Gods (my community has benefited from those nuggets of date-y goodness), nut cups, and brownies. You can say food has always been a part of my life. I never really have appreciated how much my mom does until I decided to do it myself. Now, I think I get why mom does it (she'll complain once in a while, but I know she loves it).

The meal is served

It's because the kitchen is a place of love. Yeah, it's hot, muggy, and a lot of work: just look at the blisters on my finger. None of that matters though. There's something to be said about the love and trust that people put into the cook. It says: hey, for this meal, I'm putting my well-being in your hands; make sure I don't get sick, and I would also appreciate it if it tastes good; get to it! Yeah, I think that's a tall order with a lot of love and trust associated when you know the cook. That love and trust goes the other direction too. Cooks do it because they want to showcase their love for those that will eat their meal. My mom holds family higher than anything. This year, I have not gotten a chance to know all the JVs personally, but I have bonded with them without any words being shared. The work we do make us all intimate with brokenness, confusion, loss, and, once in a while, hope and relief.  It's obvious that we all have gone through it. So, to me, it became a mission to make sure that they have a good meal out of their trek to Detroit. It's that simple really. You cook for the people you love. Thanks mom.

Let's Build a Bookshelf…

As Kevin and I walked out of Sunday service, there I saw it: next to the dumpster across the car strewn parking lot on top of mounds of grey brown months old snow were the remnants of a discarded and forgotten organ. How often do we sit in church pews and get swept by the music that envelops us, but never reflect on the instruments and the history of how that music is produced? I felt guilty. That mound of snow with its broken organ became a symbol of indifferent wastefulness; I began to reflect on my time as a transient resident of Detroit.

When I start typing "Detroit is…" in Google, autocomplete results are predominantly negative. "Detroit is crap." "Detroit is dangerous." "Detroit is a war zone." "Detroit is scary." The news has been dominated by Detroit with headlines of the largest municipal bankruptcy, the phenomena of urban flight, and the downfall of the automotive industry. The lights are out. The roads are broken. The jobs are lost. The incomes are unequal. Detroit is that broken organ next to the dumpster. Or at least, that's how it has been perceived, labeled, and dismissed. Detroit, the gleaming beacon of American industrialization and exceptionalism, just like that organ, the gleaming centerpiece of visceral artistry and spirituality, has been discarded in lieu of progress. We live in a world speeding towards change willing to discard the trappings of the past. How do we respond?

The decision was easy. Two days later, Sarah, Elizabeth, and I drove by that dumpster and saw the broken organ still there. After a few minutes of struggling with wood and ice, it became obvious that the other parts were too heavy or bulky for us to carry. In the end, we were only able to salvage the keyboard: the interface between instrument and man.

The keyboard in my room sat for several days. Ideas were thought up and summarily thrown out. Should I turn it into a wall mount? Should I use the keys to create a lamp? Should I use the structure as a canvas? Should I separate the pieces and create different projects? In the end, I decided to use the entire structure as a whole to create a bookshelf. I spent two nights measuring and making plans.

Eventually, I bought some planks of wood and had them cut at the store. The sideboards I had to cut myself. I ended up buying or borrowing other tools like a saw, a sander, and a drill. The first day, I spent four hours just cutting, sanding, gluing, nailing, and varnishing the pieces. Along the way, of course I made mistakes. I broke some drillbits, got splinters in my hand, inhaled some sawdust, put the pieces together crookedly, and spilled a can of varnish. I got frustrated and distraught. My product was imperfect and crooked. I had to remind myself that I'm a novice. The experience was in trying to create beauty and functionality out of trash and the barest of materials. The project became a symbol of how to interact with materials in an imperfect manner, but still find value in the process. In the end, I was left with a flawed but valuable product that I am proud to have created. I redefined the refuse to create a bookshelf: a storage space and product of creativity.

So what is Detroit? Where do the fingers of its people intersect with the foundations of the metropolis? Where does its people get involved in the process of redefining a dismissed city? With a city, flaws permeate its existence and its redemption. In Detroit, I see people work everyday to make it better. Doctors, caseworkers, legislators, lawyers, volunteers, teachers, chaplains, and community organizers face an avalanche of human suffering daily. They see the flaws of a city and try to work with the barest of resources for redemption. The victories of course are not perfect. The medicines or housing or food or counseling that can be provided cannot fully remedy the failures of social structures. Even after safety nets are provided, people will fall between the cracks. The marginalized may remain marginalized. But, is that reality grounds for pessimism and inactivity?

In the end, my project taught me to enjoy the process. The process is what will redeem Detroit. The results will eventually come to fruition, but it is the process that most excites me about Detroit. There is an excitement and an embrace of the process that is full of optimism in the light of all the suffering. There are days that make it hard to get out of bed, but Detroiters still do and hope for tomorrow. People that I work with, have met, and admire in Detroit see the marginalized at their level. They embody the imperfect process of redemption along with the people they serve. At the end of the day, it is in those imperfect interactions at an equal level that redeems Detroit. It is in the solidarity of a people in imperfection that allows for Detroit to re-imagine itself.

There are objects, moments, people, places, and skills that, over time,  eventually change, lose purpose, or is discarded. The progression of violence, failure, and industry has rendered Detroit, its people, and its industries irrelevant. Or at least that is how it is perceived. Everyday, there are interactions in this city, in any city, that are slowly redefining and re-imagining its potential. As people, we have to acknowledge these efforts and not be bogged down by the results. We have to allow our imaginations to see the potential and beauty of each and every interaction we engage in. So with that in mind, let's keep building bookshelves.

[Sorry for the inactivity]

Testimony

As a Jesuit Volunteer, I have had the privilege to work with the uninsured in Detroit. As with all aspects of the healthcare field, the greatest source of frustration comes from what we can't control. Primarily, the life choices of our partners (I choose to refer to patients as partners). But, this well-thought out post clarifies and reminds me of the realities that people face. It points to the complexities of social realities and the need for a broader holistic discussion on poverty. We need a united voice for systemic change.

I do not know this specific bloggers social life and the veracity of her voice. What I do know is that her words remind me of the realities that I encounter day-in and day-out. 

I plan on posting a few of my own thoughts and about my experience at the Ignatian Family Teach-In for Justice.

Source: Why I Make Terrible Decisions, or, poverty thoughts [I urge you to visit the actual website and learn more about the blogger].

Books

As Jesuit Volunteers, we are placed in communities which suffer under structural violence. Whether they are broken education systems, political systems, healthcare systems, social systems, or economic systems people we work with suffer under systems they have no control over. This is the type of world we live in and the type of world that Suzanne Collins and Graham Greene create in “Mockingjay” and in “The Power and the Glory.” These books resonated with me, not because of how they are written, but because they thrust a knife into my conscience and twist as hard as they can.

What fascinates me about both these books is the fact that I see them both as protest books. In "Mockingjay," Katniss Everdeen is reduced to a figurehead. A bulk of the story revolves around her conflict with being her own agent, but this self-agency is co-opted by both sides of the conflict. Whether as a sacrifice to remind the districts of their weakness or a lightning rod that the rebellion can hang its hopes on, she becomes a pawn in a greater game between political systems. She is no longer a person, but a role that is inhabited. Katniss and the other tributes are sufferers that we as readers get to know rather intimately. But, the reality is that Panem is a world wherein self-agency is reduced to meandering existences of suffering.

Economic inequality reduces people into caricatures of humanity. From the grotesque Capitol to the faceless Districts, we are forced to take a pause in where we are today. How does our life of privilege, with our ability to take a year of our lives to "sacrifice in service," reflect the grotesqueries of the Capitol? How do our day-to-day interactions with our partners and clients, how they sometimes become just a torrent of victims rather than respected individuals, reflect the facelessness of the Districts? Suzanne Collins slides that knife into our consciousness so that we can see our own lives for what they are: privileged consumption.

In "The Power and the Glory," we are introduced to a flawed nameless priest. The bulk of the story revolves around his quest to survive. But, his final acts revolve around answering the call to serve knowing full-well that such service would require his life and would only affect one singular person that did not even embrace his sacrifice. The priest and the sufferer both die nameless and loveless deaths. Both deaths are witnessed by crowds of people that go on about their lives. We have to ask ourselves, how are we all witnesses to suffering in each of our ministries?

The beauty of the story is that compassion grows from a sense of duty and from a sense of suffering. The priest acts only after he has suffered persecution and been witness to it. He himself became a victim and a witness. It brought him closer to a sense of love for all people. How does our year of solidarity and as witnesses affecting us right now? After this year, where will our experiences as guide us? Graham Greene shocks us into realizing that witnesses bear a great responsibility to change the system that has victimized us all.

It maybe flippant to say what I am saying. In all respects, we are afforded the luxury to reflect on suffering as a means to entering a greater conscious morality/spirituality. The suffering that our clients, (I prefer calling them partners) is all too real. I am not trying to reduce such suffering to an academic discussion. But, it would be a disservice to not let their stories shake our worldview. The fictitious characters in “Mockingjay” and “The Power and the Glory” affected me in a visceral manner. Their suffering is fictitious. In a world of self-numbing media consumption, of caricatured human experiences, of narcissistic self-advertisement, we have the ability to bear the stories of this year and learn as witnesses to suffering. What we learn and how we change is entirely up to us.