Black lung expertise with a little sass

Who says speakers of note don't come to Lee County, Virginia?  If someone here in Jonesville had told me that a nationally-known scientist and medical examiner was to be visiting the area I probably would have rolled my eyes at them and said "Really?" too. Nonetheless, last Thursday I had the (free) privilege and entertainment of hearing Dr. Joshua Perper speak locally on the issues of: coal workers' pneumoconiosis (i.e. black lung), typical, medically-recognized symptoms, and necessary medical proof that a coal worker needs in order to collect medical benefits from the afflictions of black lung. Like I said, Dr. Perper is a medical examiner of national esteem, most widely known for his efforts as chief ME in Broward County, Florida for 17 years (1994-2011) and performing the autopsy of former Playboy model and actress Anna Nicole Smith. He's basically Alex Woods of CSI Miami! You see the similarities, right?:

       
Images taken from: http://www.tvrage.com/CSI_Miami/character_guide?character=691
http://articles.sun-sentinel.com/2011-09-07/news/fl-perper-press-conference-20110906_1_zvi-harry-perper-medical-examiners-commission-illegal-pill-sales

Yeah, me neither. In addition to his work at a medical examiner, toxicologist and forensic pathologist, Dr. Perper has done a great deal of research on coal workers pneumoconiosis. His talk was remarkably enlightening, highlighting in some very accessible ways via explanations, pictures, etc. the key components of black lung and why it is so harmful. For example, smokers can immediately begin improving their respiratory health by ceasing to smoke. Not true for coal workers who have been exposed to coal dust due to their labor in the mines; the dust particles that enter their lungs will remain there forever. Thus, years after not working in the mines, an individual will still have those particles floating around in his lungs, causing scratching and scarring of valuable lung tissue.

Another commonly posed question deals with the pollutant particles that millions, even billions of city inhabitants inhale daily as they go about their normal lives. Isn't this dust just as dangerous to the lungs, and why haven't all those individuals also developed black lung like coal workers? Dr. Perper explained that development of black lung does not occur, even if the pollution is from coal waste product substances, because there are distinct kinds of minerals and particles released from the rock when it is extracted in its raw form (within the mine). Thus, coal workers are exposed to a more raw, dangerous form of the coal dust not present in the "refined" pollution of a city. In conclusion, my asthmatic self (and subsequent interest in the respiratory system and other breathing conditions), plus my undying curiosity, plus a part of my undergraduate student self that misses the weekly chance to hear a speaker on any given topic thoroughly enjoyed listening to Dr. Perper's presentation. Unfortunately, it seems that the extensive medical proof necessary to legally and medically establish that a former coal miner has coal workers' pneumoconiosis is nearly impossible to provide with convincing certainty to the proper authorities-- many of whom I assume are in the back pockets of the coal company giants. A combination of breathing capacity tests/studies, lung biopsies, chest scans, proof of working in the mine for an elongated period of time and finally, a certified autopsy by a certified medical examiner are all integral for a coal worker or his widow to receive financial compensation for the condition. It seems like sort of a crazy, sad reality.

The "little sass" that I mention in this post's title came from Dr. Perper himself and his presentation style. His talk was hosted in the newly renovated Lee Theater which opened just a little over a month ago. The first quirkiness emerged within the sound system's set-up. Dr. Perper was initially stationed behind a podium with a microphone but it quickly became evident that: 1) the microphone had not been readjusted for Dr. Perper's height and 2) Dr. Perper did not want to be limited by the confines of that podium to do his speaking. Many muffled words, a few giggles (mine) and strained looks (from cute little coal workers' widows) from the audience, and 4 gentlemen approaching the podium later and Dr. Perper finally emerged to stand in front of the podium, microphone in hand, to continue delivering his talk. The best part though was the antics that surfaced with whomever was controlling Dr. Perper's powerpoint presentation from the balcony. This individual seemed to have trouble not only with paying enough attention to change the slide on Dr. Perper's (very clear) hand cue, but also with the backward versus forward concept of advancing the presentation's slides. At one point of elevating frustration, Dr. Perper commented "It's not a car you know." The audience died with laughter but the tech controller must have been mortified. Let your imagination add here the doctor's unique character standing front and center: a Romanian who escaped Nazi rule during WWII, sought asylum and education in Israel, earning degrees in medicine and law, an immigrant to the United States who studied forensic pathology at Johns Hopkins and worked for the cities of Baltimore, Pittsburgh and Broward County (Fort Lauderdale, Florida). He was the epitome of a strong, straightforward personality-- all business.  I'm still not sure why the technical execution of the presentation was such an issue; how much more simple can advancing slides in a Powerpoint presentation be?

Lesson for the week: never, ever underestimate who might boldly cross the threshold of the Lee Theater. You might be pleasantly surprised.

Appalachia Service Project is BIG!

Since my first official job (way back in 2006) as an assistant to the summer maintenance staff at Payne Elementary, I have worked for a variety of non-profit and educational institutions, within a variety of hierarchical organizational structures. Apart from technically working for the U.S. State Department (which obviously employs thousands of individuals) under the confines of my Fulbright grant, I have generally worked for much smaller entities. At Homes on the Hill in Columbus, Ohio, our staff of 8 individuals occupied the second floor of a church in the Hilltop neighborhood. As an intern with La Plaza in Indianapolis, I was one of three summer interns working alongside a summer program staff of approximately 8 teachers plus our program director, plus other La Plaza staff (not involved with our Summer Discovery program) totaling maybe somewhere between 10 and 15 individuals. Finally, in Argentina, I worked on school staffs composed of anywhere between 30 and 100 teachers/professors. In those last school environments, I didn't know all my other colleagues on staff, primarily because all teachers are not present at all times in the school facility (unlike their professional counterparts in the US). This consistent coming and going of educators (throughout the school day) is what permitted me to work in three distinct schools throughout the year. But I digress from this post's point about my current employment and Appalachia Service Project's sheer size....

Sometimes I have moments where I must remind myself that Appalachia Service Project is an extremely large organization. At our headquarters in Johnson City, Tennessee, there is a staff of approximately 30 people working year-round. During ASP's summer youth program in 2013, there were just over 14,000 volunteers deployed to work on home improvements in Appalachia, guided by over 100 summer staff, construction consultants and other support staff. Those volunteers completed over 3,600 projects in homes, serving 537 families and 1,405 individuals. If you add on to all those numbers the work that we do here in the year-round centers, yes, the picture and vision grows even bigger. Each of the 4 centers operates with a staff of 4 Lilly Fellows (that's me!) and a Center Supervisor, and last year the year-round centers worked with a total of 3,000-4,000 adult volunteers (if I'm not mistaken). Certainly not to be forgotten are other support staff at each of our centers. Our cook here in Jonesville is a total hoot, and our maintenance guy and his sidekick are always good for a laugh and juicy local gossip over a cup of coffee. Without invoking too much negative imagery, ASP is a monster.

I imagine you're getting the big picture organizationally of ASP at this point, but occasionally I myself lose sight of that overall framework and get stuck mentally in my little bubble here on the hill in Jonesville. Sometimes this is a difficult battle to fight as we generally are so busy working with volunteers and families in Lee County. While I'm living here, I imagine that it will be just two or three times per month that I venture beyond our county lines, and fewer times than that I will interact at length with our central office staff in Johnson City. I have already seen in some ways how this can shape our identity as a year-round center, for better and for worse.

Most recently, at the end of October, ASP hosted a large advancement/philanthropy event called Work Miracles in Johnson City. The weekend brought together a great number of ASP's (financial) supporters to hear updates on what the organization is doing and how it is dreaming and planning to do bigger and better things. I, fortunately, was able to take Friday "off" from work here in Jonesville to travel to Johnson City and assist in some final event preparations as well as enjoy the kick-off festivities of that evening. However, besides the year-round Tri-Cities staff (who live in Johnson City), I was the only individual from any of the year-round centers able to be present at this very important organizational event. Besides the networking interests, that essentially, necessarily plague any young professional, I had a genuine interest in attending Work Miracles to capture a better understanding of how our mission, vision, work out in the field with volunteers and relationships within our community all come together in this identity that I might embrace to answer the question: What does it mean to work for ASP?

I'm just over two months into my role as a Lilly fellow and will have only 10, short months more in this particular role at the year-round center to define and decipher and, occasionally, muddle my way through what it means to work with this gentle giant that is Appalachia Service Project. Because it's big, there are a lot of layers to work through in regards to organizational values, hierarchy, partnerships, goal setting, working relationships that ultimately feel like family...and the list could go on an on. The layers are anything but simple and the inquisitive, analytical, motivated part of me wants to dig into all those layers, understand them quickly and efficiently, and then reassemble them in a way that makes sense (for me and ASP). Just like any homemade chocolate cake, the more layers it has, the greater chance the chocolate of the mission statement and the cream of relationships with families in the community will mix (pardon my awful, love-of-baking fueled analogy). And so, I doubt that I will devour the layers quickly or efficiently, but, instead will be a better connoisseur of the organizational culture feast before me if I simply take it in one "forkful" at a time within the lines of this blog.

The bluegrass will live on

It appeared only a smidgen strange to me that a group of old men would get together every Thursday at Denison University to pick and strum their favorite, well-known bluegrass tunes in Slayter student union's lowest level, also affectionately known as "the pit." Sitting alongside them would be wives and close friends, often singing, just as often chatting while the cherished weekly routine unfolded. I label this gathering as strange only because these seasoned musicians had no official ties to the university, nor to any student interest groups, at least none that I was aware of. These gentlemen played their bluegrass for themselves, certainly not with an end of catching students' attention and interest. If I remember correctly, they were present and played even in summer and during our winter semester break, when student numbers on campus were slim to none. (My own residency on campus one summer and significant winter break time logged on the hill with our basketball practices and games spur memories of their consistent musical presence.). That isn't to say though that students are unwelcome listeners. "The pit's" design is such that those bluegrass medleys float up the ever-active principle Slayter staircase. Students occasionally pull up a chair or nonchalantly occupy a table nearby, soaking in the live version of whatever alternative might await them on a playlist or their favorite Pandora station. Never would I have thought during my Denison years that those familiar bluegrass sounds would eventually define the musical culture of where I live. But here I am, living in the heart of bluegrass country and today's reflection comes from the vibrant life found amid this impassioned, traditional art form.

One of my first experiences with bluegrass here in Virginia came in the second week of being in Jonesville. My supervisor and his family suggested we go as a staff to a local hang-out called Wayne's Place. As told to me, Wayne was a stand-up, community-minded gentleman who lived in the area and died just a couple short years ago. Close to his home, where his wife still resides, there is a sizable building with a multi-purpose sort of feel, including a small stage and various patriotic decorations that grace the walls. Wayne's place serves as a community center that keeps its doors open solely from donation funding. Nearly every Friday and Saturday night, you can find (if you can actually find Wayne's Place way back in its holler') fills up with folks yearning to tap their toes and pick a good bluegrass tune or two (or many). The Friday that we went, our dinner contribution included a large platter of macaroni and cheese and coleslaw. On arriving, we found that a spread of several soups, sandwiches, deviled eggs, other vegetable dishes, pies, cakes, donuts and mounds of cornbread, among numerous other dishes awaited the crowd that had gathered. Talk about a full table of bounty to enjoy once the meal had been blessed.

Then the playing began. A handful of guitar players, a base, a banjo or two, a mandolin, and even a dulcimer, not to mention the enthusiastic spoons player in the audience, played classic tune after classic bluegrass tune. We even enjoyed the sweet crooning of the sweetest 3 or 4-year-old little girl who adamantly told her grandfather that she wanted to sing; she actually knew the vast majority of the words to her couple of songs and was far from shy about "kissing" the microphone to make sure her audience could hear the inevitably sad ballad of her tunes. We stayed til around 9:00 PM that evening, but I have no doubt that the dedicated regulars of Wayne's Place were easily there til midnight-- picking, singing, laughing, dancing, and just sharing life with one another.

Since then, I've had the pleasure of listening to two other official bands here at our ASP center in Jonesville. Typically, we try and host a "culture night" once weekly for our volunteers, and what could be more culturally appropriate, more true to southern artistic roots or a more enjoyable way to spend an evening on the porch here in Jonesville than with a local bluegrass band taking the stage to show off their stuff? The Town Branch Bluegrass band provided our first cultural entertainment here on the porch. With a traditional sound and talented crew, Town Branch is a well-known name in the region and finds themselves steadily booked with gigs (noted from the local paper's repeated mentions of their performances at many a local festival).

Most recently, we've played host for the Sycamore Hollow Band who was also received with a captivated attention and excellent reviews from our volunteers. The following cultural observation, though, is the thing that made me most excited about experiencing their music: everyone in the band is so YOUNG! While I had friends at Denison who studied and focused on performing bluegrass music, very few of them were dedicated to this style of music as something that had been pulsing through their veins since they could walk. Several of Sycamore Hollow's musicians are probably younger than me, and I feel like I could say with a certain assurance that none of them are older than 30.

I became so enthused about this, I think, because bluegrass music is so intimately tied to the heart of a Southern, and especially Appalachian, identity. While Sycamore Hollow calls themselves an "Outlaw Bluegrass band," attributable to their mixing of traditional bluegrass with their own upbeat, musical twists, bluegrass music is reaching a new generation in very relevant ways through the ways they write and perform their music. In just one evening of observing these musicians act out age-old traditions, the talent and soul that Sycamore Hollow pours into every tune was evident. And when you have a lead vocalist who is both playing on a camouflage guitar and who looks like he could be, maybe, 18 years old but sings with the dark, smooth, mature voice of Johnny Cash (Josh Turner anyone?), I believe you've probably won over a few in the audience already. Yes, I believe the invaluable, distinctly Appalachian legend of bluegrass will live on.

On blazin' new trails and avoiding small, striped creatures

Living in the mountains for the first time was one of the more exciting, highly anticipated aspects of moving to Western Virginia for my Lilly fellowship position with ASP. Some of the first on-line perusing I did of the region was a careful search of available state parks: how far they are from our center, their amenities (camping, hiking, biking, etc.), their natural features of note, etc. Knowing already that any city of significant size is at least an hour's drive from Jonesville, plus keeping my humble fellowship salary in mind, I had an early, vested interest in exploring the cheaper adventures that would be available. My interest in locations suitable for mountain biking increased exponentially at the end of August when my adopted family at Trinity Friends Church (Van Wert, Ohio) surprised me with an extraordinary end-of-my-youth-ministry present: a new mountain bike! Much like many people who don their cars with pet names, I think I would like to bestow my Mongoose mountain bike with a name of her own. Maybe something appropriate to the mongoose's natural qualities or habitat? But I digress...

We've been enjoying some abnormally warm October weather here in Jonesville; it was in the 80's all weekend, bright and sunny in Lee county! With similar, fantastic weather last week as well, I wanted to take advantage of the favorable conditions to visit a state park and break in my new set of wheels before colder conditions set in. And so, my hopes were set into action last Monday alongside two fellow staff members. We drove to Duffield and Virginia's Natural Tunnel State Park for a day of hiking, biking, and general outdoor enjoyment. This particular park boasts a natural limestone tunnel of 850 feet in length and (up to) 10 stories in height, traversed daily by up to 10 coal trains and, on the day we visited, maintenance vehicles keeping the tracks and their vicinity clear for aforementioned industrial transit. Unfortunately, individuals can't actually pass on foot through the tunnel itself, but even from the mouth of this natural monstrosity, I was amazed and absorbed by a feeling of smallness.

The other spot of legend within the park is Lovers' Leap, historically alleged jumping point for two young lovers, a Cherokee young woman and Shawnee young man, who were forbidden to marry one another by their respective Native American tribes. The recorded story is that, denied this opportunity to join in marriage here on Earth, the pair jumped from the pinnacle together to their deaths below, hopeful for a chance to be reunited in their next lives. Our trek on Monday carried us to the edge of Lovers' Leap, all the way down to the mouth of the Natural Tunnel, and through some other beautiful wooded areas, still awaiting autumn's colorful palette of yellows, oranges and reds. My subsequent biking adventure traced the 2-mile Purchase Ridge Trail, ultimately leading to the Purchase Ridge Outlook. What a picture-perfect (a real shame my camera died within 5 minutes of arriving at the park and turning it on to take pictures), stereotypical Appalachian, expansive view awaited me from that outlook. A few trees had been cut down in order to reveal the mountain-overlapping-mountain, seemingly never-ending sky view from this point. In my opinion though, those few trees were a small price to be paid, and easily replanted elsewhere in the forest, for the well-appreciated moment of respite that awaited me following the work of pedaling up the mountain.

I'll conclude my reflections today with the most humorous moment of my Natural Tunnel State Park adventure. On returning from the summit of the Purchase Ridge Trail, my peripheral vision and its recognition of minor rustling at the side of the trail, ahead of me, triggered a "BRAKE!" signal in my brain. I did brake, surprisingly quickly, and found myself approximately 10 feet away, staring face-to-face with a baby skunk. You know how kittens have that wispy, barely there fur in their first months of life? This kit (i.e. baby skunk) had that same wispy fur on his tail and we both froze momentarily. He glanced my way for a couple moments, without further reaction, then meandered further up the hill with a sort of slow waddle. When he was no less than 15 feet off the hiking/biking path, I remembered that my cell phone has a camera and that I should be snapping a picture of this close encounter! Needless to say, with the less-than-average image quality of my phone's camera, the minuscule size of the critter and the distance he had already put between himself and the path, I couldn't get a shot that depicted him as any more than a semi-distinguishable, black ball of fuzz. I assure you however, that I was close enough to look this little dude in the eye. My obvious first question was: could I have been sprayed? and upon further research after arriving back in Jonesville, I learned the following:

• skunks typically give birth annually to their young, a litter of between 2 and 10 kits, by June of each year
• skunks have the ability to spray just a month after being born
• skunks typically use their spray as a last resort when they feel threatened because it takes their body a number of days, after expelling all the available fluid, to refill these defensive anal glands
• skunks have a very poor sense of sight, generally being unable to see objects further than 10 feet away but an excellent accuracy rate in spraying their "stink juice," with spot-on projections to targets over 10 feet away

Moral of the story, I probably could have been sprayed by our striped, actually very cute friend on the path the other day. I think God had mercy on me (and my coworkers who had to ride back with me in the same van!) though, via the skunk's poor eyesight and my functional peripheral vision. Hopefully my bike shall see the trails again soon (sans skunks) and meanwhile, there are an abundance of volunteers to meet and home repairs to be tackled in Jonesville.

The (Fine) Art of Customer Service

There are multiple facets to my job responsibilities: pre-trip communication with groups, tracking of center finances, project database updates, project site visits and the corresponding (photographic) tracking of construction progress, evening gathering planning and delivery, food inventory and ordering (eventually. my partner-in-crime in the office is handling this task at the present while I tackle finances), maintaining our center's social media presence, and other basic preparations conducted every week as we prepare to receive new groups of volunteers. Behind the fancy jargon and the lengthy list of responsibilities that constitute my job description, however, lies the core principle that my job is one of customer service. 

Customer Service? Maybe it isn't the label that you would intuitively place on my position: an Office & Volunteer Coordinator for a non-profit, home renovation organization in Appalachia. Or maybe you've worked for a non-profit before and realize that without invested buy-in from all parties involved, a non-profit organization's gears just don't turn. At ASP, customer service as an essential characteristic of my job stems, for me, from our vision statement that takes a two-fold approach: "that substandard housing in Central Appalachia will be eradicated and that everyone who comes into contact with this ministry will be transformed." I'll touch on my experiences with the first part of the vision statement ("that substandard house in Central Appalachia will be eradicated") another day, but today's reflections are about that second part, "that everyone who comes into contact with this ministry will be transformed."
In just two weeks of hosting volunteers at ASP's Jonesville center, I have interacted with, assisted and guided groups from Mississippi, Maryland, North Carolina, Ohio and Illinois. From- the most basic- pointing out where the directions for the coffeemaker are (Answer: taped to the wall, just behind the coffee pot itself), to -the slightly more challenging- checking in on volunteer morale on their construction sites and reconciling volunteer mobility with limited top bunk vs. bottom bunk housing arrangements, to- the mildly intimidating- delivering a teaching that challenged volunteers to evaluate what they are chasing in life, I have engaged in more intimate customer service than at, well, Burger King where Have it Your Way is the attending M.O. Truthfully, while facilitating excellent experiences for volunteers is likely the most demanding aspect of my position this year, it is also one of the principle reasons that I accepted the fellowship. Having the opportunity to get to know and hear the stories of volunteers from all over the country will be some of the most treasured experiences that I will take away from this year in Appalachia. Further, however cliché it may sound, I don't think I've ever met a stranger in my life so a chance to meet and connect with new individuals and their stories on a weekly basis is something like a dream come true.

But wait, my customer service efforts certainly don't end with the volunteers that will pass through ASP Jonesville from now until August 2014; the families that we serve are important recipients too of our careful efforts and best ministry work. Our organization's founder Glenn Evans is infamously know for the following saying:

We accept people right where they are, just the way they are.

In just a month of living here in Appalachia, I have witnessed need, in home after home, of a degree greater than any other part of the country that I have ever seen. Need is need; I truly believe that and know that my work is driven dually this year, first by ASP's organizational commitments to earnestly serving our family clients in the homes where we work. Our "checklist" as we strive to improve their homes, via volunteers' efforts, is to ensure that their homes are warmer, safer and drier. Relationship building is the second, more subjective, yet just as important, piece of our interactions with families. Our community work and the trusted friendships we try to build with families serve as both distinctive associations to and active stakeholders in the formation of ASP's longstanding ministry and identity.

So when I share tales of playing cards with volunteers, or listening to their ASP trip stories from years or even decades prior, or chatting for an hour with one of our families just to hear about how her kids are doing in school, you, dearest reader, shan't chide me for "slacking off" on the job. As my supervisor here in Jonesville likes to say, "We're really a relationship ministry with a little construction on the side." It's all about customer service.

Rain, Rain, Go Away

Our team in Jonesville has made it through week one of volunteers and in fact, has already dove headfirst into week two of volunteer work crews here at ASP. Last week our work crews dug drainage ditches, built an entire handicap ramp, installed siding, hung new drywall on walls and ceilings, and sealed decks, along with several other projects. While the majority of our week consisted of just a smaller group of 10 from Decatur, Mississippi, Thursday evening through Sunday morning included a large addition of about 45 volunteers from Wakefield United Methodist Church in Raleigh, North Carolina and Shiloh United Church of Christ from Dayton, Ohio. Friday's work went fairly smooth with all the crews out at their sites, but on Saturday, water came in the form of drizzle, and rain, and solid sheets that I would put in the classification of monsoon style.

I had already decided where I wanted to direct my focus for this blog post and then remembered that I had just written about rain in my previous entry. Don't pass me off as a Debbie Downer, okay? I promise that, one, it truly hasn't rained a great deal since I have arrived here in Jonesville, and two, that my next blog entry will have no such soggy, negative allusions.

Two cultural generalities struck me on Saturday, comparatively speaking between (northern) Argentina and the United States. The rain started out as a slower drizzle, progressively working its way to a steady downpour by midday. At that point, a few groups came back to the center because their outdoor work seemed impossible or unsafe at the home sites. Hypothetically speaking, in Chaco with an ominous overcast sky and almost inevitable threat of impending intensified rainfall, I have my doubts that groups of chaqueños would have even headed out to their work sites in the first place. While I was teaching high school English, it was not uncommon that I would have just three, or four, or five students in a class on a rainy day. There was one particular day that I remember that we had one student show up. That's right folks, one single young man out of the entire 300+ member student body (that's an approximate guestimation) reported for classes on one rainy day.

Let me anticipate your next question: Why (don't they go to school)? Some of the reasoning has to do with transportation and that even within the city of Resistencia, there are many streets that are not paved. Thus, if students get to school by walking, or motorcycle, or even public bus in some instances, the transit becomes extremely difficult if not impossible as streets become impassable mud pits. Secondly, and maybe just as influential in many homes, is the custom that parents simply don't insist that their children go to school on days when it is raining.  Where that custom originates from, I'm not sure, but it most assuredly exists.

Here in Virginia on Saturday, a volunteer who actually stayed on his site, hanging siding for a time despite the rain, told me that at one point it felt as if he was standing directly below a waterfall. Unceasing waves of water cascaded off the roof onto his then very floppy fisherman's hat. His improvised garbage bag-turned-poncho had essentially vacuum sucked itself against his clothes and skin. Eventually he did have to take a rain-induced timeout from his work because he literally could not see what he was doing. Yep, not happening in Argentina.

I did note, however, a cultural similarity amid the soggy conditions that plagued our work on Saturday. I believe there is something inherently human about a desire to remain dry and a non-desire to complete work on those rainy days. As opposite as our two cultures may be in how we actually conduct business on a rainy day, many volunteers' morale illustrated how they felt about doing work on an otherwise gloomy day. In practice, this takes the form of individuals who return to our center, say they'd like to work in the center, and then sort of halfheartedly take on the tasks that are assigned to them. I can't say that I blame them for feeling or reacting that way; I probably would lean towards doing the same. And so, I would say that inexplicable urge to be snuggled up in sweats, cuddled up under a blanket, coddling a cup of coffee (or tea, or whatever makes you warm inside), and settled in to watch a favorite movie is something human we all share, at least in Argentina and the United States.

Running with Raindrops

I went running last Thursday afternoon. Not special enough for you? (and, yes, I've gone running multiple times since then.)

Ok, I went running in the rain last Thursday afternoon. Still not cutting it?

Then I'll throw my last card on to the table : I went running in the rain in Jonesville, Virginia's Cumberland Bowl Park (aka The Bowl) last Thursday afternoon. Besides the fact that I find running in the rain extremely liberating (as strange as you think it may sound) my big news to share in this post is that I'll be blogging live this year from Jonesville, Virginia , more specifically, from the Appalachia Service Project site in Jonesville. I'm working as a Office & Volunteer Coordinator for ASP and with our first group of volunteers on site already this week, bustling is a pretty accurate term to reflect the tenor of our lives on the hill.

Since you've probably never heard of Appalachia Service Project before, I'll start with what you might find on a FAQ page. ASP was founded in 1969 by Methodist Reverend Glenn "Tex" Evans. Originally, from Texas, he was a bit of an unconventional man who moved to Appalachia and, after 13 years at the Henderson Settlement in Kentucky, started recruiting youth to work alongside him to complete much needed home repairs throughout impoverished Appalachia. Now in its 44th year, ASP is still driven by that same mission, making homes Warmer. Safer. and Drier. and creating transformative experiences for all who come into contact with ASP: families who receive assistance, communities where we work, and volunteers who are still responding to the call to help others in need.

My position this year as a Lilly endowed fellow places me among a team of: one other Office & Volunteer fellow (from Lima, Ohio), two Construction fellows (from Greeneville, TN and Damascus, MD) and our Center Supervisor and his family (from Akron, OH). All the fellows arrived here in Jonesville for training just two and a half weeks ago and we welcomed our first group of volunteers (from Decatur, MS) into Jonesville's center already this week. Needless to say that our first week of training was full of session, after session, after session of finance, volunteer number tracking, community relations, evening gathering planning, etc. Week two was more "training" of a very hands-on, go-out-into-Lee-county, and preparatory nature. ASP Jonesville is a busy place, and our volunteer center/quarters can house nearly 100 volunteers if I'm not mistaken! Thus, you can be sure to expect many a fantastic tale to reach my blog pages this year.

And so I've laid the framework for this next year of professional, personal and spiritual growth, soon to be followed by entries of a more specific and critical nature. If you know me and have ever read this blog in the past, you know that I'd rather not write this entry's type of detail-oriented account; I'm ready to jump in with an anecdote and provide some analysis on what I think it has revealed to me about the culture where I'm living. With that, I hope I leave you, dear reader, with a desire to follow along on my journey with ASP this year!

What a _____________ (you fill in the blank)

Well I am back on the blog radar, maybe not in the way that a lot of you expect. Seven weeks and two days ago I was boarding a plane for Argentina, seven weeks and one day ago I arrived in and left Buenos Aires, and seven weeks ago I arrived back in the United States with a big 'not admitted' stamp in my passport. Yes, the play-by-the-rules Teresa that you all know was deported from Argentina.  If you have seen or talked to me in the last seven weeks this comes as no surprise, but if you haven't been privy to this information, or if I just haven't seen you, I sincerely hope you are suffering from no kind of hypertension as I will not be held liable for any heart attacks that result from this post. Today's post is reserved for an overview of how I got where I am now. In the coming days I'm self-committing to record a lot of the fantastic things I experienced and never recorded last year living, working and teaching in Argentina.

So, how does one get oneself deported from a country? Pull up a carpet square for story time... My first year in Argentina (2011) was with the Fulbright commission. Issuing visas were apparently a new thing for them at the time and they requested the visas for a period of just eight months. This would not have been a problem except for the fact that they needed us in Buenos Aires for a full week before our eight month grant periods actually started. Thus, when the end of the year arrived, I opted to pay a (measly) 300 peso fine for having overstayed my visa a week or two. No big deal. It was either pay the fine or pay 600 pesos plus other time-consuming paperwork to get my visa extended for the extra couple weeks. What would you have done? Every Argentine I had talked to said that it was no big deal, that they knew people who had overstayed their visas and had never encountered any problems, etc.

I returned to Argentina in January 2012 after being home for Christmas in 2011 and encountered a couple questions at passport control but was stamped 'tourist' and ushered in without any further questioning or fines. I cannot believe how fast the year flew. With multiple jobs and, let's be honest, living a more "normal" life that didn't include a Fulbright grant salary and schedule, I was swimming in work for the entire year. I loved it at times and wasn't sure to do with all the accompanying stress and confusion at others, but it really became home in that time. Thankfully, too, the end of the year and rest eventually arrived. Again, can't emphasize how many individuals, colleagues, friends said to me that I needn't worry about encountering roadblocks in returning, despite the fact that I had overstayed my visa in 2012.

German had acquired his passport and a tourist visa for the United States, which is no simple process, and I, again, paid a fee to leave the country with an expired visa, still 99% convinced that I wouldn't encounter any problems passing through Migrations and Passport Control. Fast forward through some fantastic moments at Christmas, New Years and spending time with folks that I love here in the U.S. and we arrive to German and I's return to Buenos Aires. To make a long story short (and avoid a "he said, I said" retelling of what happened): yes, my heart sank when I realized a red flag had been raised with my passport activity; yes, just like you see in a movie they put you in a little room to wait a long time to process paperwork and decide what to do with you; yes, I am convinced as ever of Argentina's general disorganization after having this behind-the-scenes look at Migrations. As an outsider looking in and reflecting back, you have full liberty to be of the opinion that 'she should have known better,' 'she should have been proactive about the situation,' etc., or you can sympathize, or you can do both. My overwhelming present struggle is to do neither of the two as I can neither live in the past, nor make immediate, hurried changes in the present.

Yesterday's the past, tomorrow's the future, but today is a gift. 

That's why it's called the present.   -Bil Keane

Which leads me to the present and my ongoing saga of navigating the visa process. What a ____________ (you fill in the blank). Just as I never would have imagined myself in Argentina just four short years ago, now I can't imagine myself not being there. Yet, it's this crazy dream that's actually happening. God is teaching me a lot about patience, thankfulness, and graciousness right now, and everyone, especially my parents, has been incredibly supportive. Some days though the doubts and the desperateness to be back in South America is just blisteringly overwhelming. The visa pursuit will continue to surge, or trod, forward and meanwhile, I will continue to serve, work and develop relationships where God opens doors. Oh, and more writing in store-- soon.