Moving from a small town of 30,000 to the bustling city of Chicago, home to 2.7 million, was more than just a change of scenery. I encountered more people on my morning commute to work in the city than I would in an entire week of living in Valpo. To many, the electric atmosphere of the city is intoxicating. There are restaurants open past 10 pm and people wandering around the park at all hours of the night. The endless possibilities which wait around every corner store and transit stop. 

For me, the city glow dimmed much faster than I expected it to. The unknown quickly lost its enchanting spirit and became overwhelming and at times, even scary. Living in a big city was not always what Gossip Girl and How I Met Your Mother made it seem. I took the wrong train more times than I care to admit and I ate way too much cheap pizza. Wandering around bright city lights does not always live up to the cinematic spectacle we dream it to be. 

In a summer program dedicated to helping us discover how our skills fit into the world, living in a city where there is a danger of feeling insignificant among the crowd proved to be a real challenge for me. I could walk down the street and not see one familiar face or have a meaningful interaction with someone. In those moments, I was so thankful to have our Valpo cohort. Having people who were experiencing similar feelings and being able to communicate openly about the struggles we were facing made them much easier to process. 

For any future CAPS fellows who may come upon this, I encourage you to reach out to those around you. Feeling swallowed up in a sea of thousands is a reality you may be facing, but you are not facing it alone. Lean on each other and check in with the people in your cohort. One of the most important takeaways from my summer was learning about the community I keep and what people in my life supported me. Make the most of the time you have and forge new relationships within your cohort. You’ll be surprised at the opportunities you find along the way. 

It’s difficult to believe that I am coming to the end of my time at Erie House. In the few weeks I have been here, I have learned a multitude of skills, listened to new perspectives on life, and saw the service sector function through a different organization. Each day was another day to learn, to grow, to challenge myself. Yet, some days brought lessons that were seemingly more profound than others and introduced me to a new way of viewing relationship-building, and life in general.

Since ninety-eight percent of my work has been with elementary-age or middle-school age kids, I’ve definitely become more apt at playing sports as well as a variety of board games that I had either not touched since my own childhood or have never seen in general. However, Jenga was one of the games that I was quite familiar with (as there was the “giant version” Jenga in the game room at Valpo). One night at one of the youth programming events, we played Jenga—but with a twist.

In this game, Solomon, the man in charge of the youth programming (youth being anyone from 7^th-10^th grade) at Erie House, gave us eight blocks each. With those eight blocks, we were supposed to build whatever we wanted. Not understanding the ulterior motive (there always is one—or so I believed), I began constructing a tower that would be quite stable if a block were removed (I tried to anticipate what he could possibly be doing and figured it would be safe to go with a short and stable tower). But what came next surprised me. He had his own eight blocks but he didn’t build anything. Instead, he asked me if he could put a block on my tower. I looked suspiciously at him but added a ninth piece to my already amazing-eight-piece tower. But I wasn’t the only one. He went around to each youth and asked to put a block on their tower. Some decided to take it, others did not.

At the end, we had to share why we built the tower the way we did. Some youth explained that they wanted to build the tallest tower, and so they had paired up with one of the staff members or each other to create a taller tower. Others made shapes, like a duck, and said they did it for fun. It was neat to see the level of creativity and the amusing replies they gave. But then Solomon then asked if any of us had any idea what the point of the game was. We all went around and shared our thoughts. Some people believed it was about teamwork since many of them decided to put their blocks together to make something bigger, others believed it to be about individual creativity.

Solomon stood up and pointed at each tower and asked if we could identify which blocks were ours if we had joined our blocks together. Some said yes. Others no. Then it became clearer as he explained.

“This whole exercise was about creating a narrative. We all have our own stories, but sometimes we don’t know what story we want to tell, so we hop on someone else’s and create a narrative that way.

Do you remember that I asked each one of you if I could add a block to your tower? Some of you said ‘yes’, and others of you didn’t. That was me asking to be a part of your story, of your narrative. It’s okay if you said no. Sometimes you see something you really want to be a part of and sometimes you’ll get turned away. But it’s okay, because there might be openings other places to insert yourself and be a part of that story. With each tower, you created a story, a narrative—by yourself or with others. But in the end, this is about understanding how we all relate to each other, and the ability to accept or decline people to be a part of our story and making it our own.”

It was amazing how something so simple like Jenga could become so profound. This extends past just talking about youth programming. It’s about life. We are all building Jenga block towers, so precariously stacked and with only so many pieces, but we don’t always have to build it alone. We can if we want to and that’s acceptable. We can also allow others to help us create what is our own story and account of our lives, actions, and character.

This metaphor isn’t just for the youth at Erie House, but for each person who is telling his/her/their story in life. As I move forward, soon to end my time at Erie House, I’ll know that my metaphorical Jenga tower is even broader because of all the blocks I allowed to be added to my narrative. I hope that I was also able to take some of my Jenga blocks and add them to the youth and staff I worked with in the short time I was there. However, as I continue on to Spain where I’ll be teaching next year, I hope to use this metaphor, this story and its meaning, to better form relationships and deeply reflect and think about what it means to be an individual and collective in creating personal stories.

As a recent graduate from Valparaiso University in Social Work and Spanish, I have begun to experience life in the “real world”. From various job applications to calling insurance companies, I am learning what it means to be an “adult”.

In this time of transition between my next job and the end of my college career, CAPS is filling the time with experiences that have opened my eyes to understanding the complexities of being a part of a non-profit organization. While this is not the first non-profit organization I’ve worked for, I have had the ability to see more of the “behind-the-scenes” aspects, such as the logistical planning and important meetings, such as meetings for fundraisers. In addition to these invaluable experiences, I’ve also come to discuss and explore what my calling is in this work that I do, but also understanding one essential aspect of service work: I am not a savior.

That probably goes without saying, but sometimes embedded subconsciously in our minds and hearts is the feeling that we are “saving” a community through the work we do. But we need to rephrase and review how we approach the service sector. The point of service and outreach is not to fulfill and feed the “savior complex” many individuals have, but rather to ask and assess what the community needs. We are more prone to assume what a community needs instead of taking the time to investigate what the community needs most, whether this is through forums, community surveying, or even personal testimonies from those living there. I admit that I had a “savior complex” stepping into the field of social work. I saw myself as someone saving other people, when in reality, it isn’t about me. It’s about the community or the client. Instead of saving, perhaps we should seek to empower.

There’s a famous metaphor that alludes to this concept of empowerment through the idea of teaching an individual to fish versus giving fish to an individual. Teaching the individual how to fish allows one to continue being self-sufficient. Other times, the individual knows the skills, such as “how to fish”, but doesn’t have the resources. And yet other times, they don’t have a place where opportunities or “fish” are readily available. Thus, non-profit work and service work should ultimately be about giving clients the tools to be self-sufficient and assessing the needs of the clients instead of assuming or giving without empowering them. Many of the programs here at Erie House support this idea of empowerment and independence. Through the citizenship classes offered to youth mentoring programs, the philosophy is that we are helping a community help itself. We are helping individuals help themselves. We are empowering, not saving.

Therefore, through my service work at Erie House, I am learning to be an accountable, active member in society. I am learning to give the tools, link clients with the necessary resources, and ultimately act as a way of getting clients to their goal—I am not delivering their goals to them. In all, I am just an everyday person looking to give back to a community with the hope that the cycle of giving and empowering allows the community to thrive in new and bigger ways.

Even though the work I do isn’t always glamorous or “fun”, I know that in the long-run, I am serving an organization that is here for the right purposes and serving the community in the best ways it can through the programs and resources offered. So as I sit here and continue to sort crayons and crafting materials, I know that these seemingly trivial tasks are important to the community and to the organization as a whole.