On the Metro

The first time I visited D.C. two springs ago, I attended a Capitol Steps production – a group of performing satirists who “put the mock in democracy.” One of their most memorable songs for me has resonated on an entirely closer level now that I’m living here.

These are the lyrics, sung to the melancholy tune of “In the Ghetto” by Elvis Presley. Go ahead and just pull out some background instrumental karaoke music and sing along.

On a cold and gray December morn
Commuters in DC look so forlorn
In the Metro (In the Metro)

And a tourist asks
"Will the red line take me to the blue?"
Do I look like a freakin' map to you...
Of the Metro?

People, don't you understand?
Tourists need a helping hand
Or they'll ride on Metro rails all day
Will their memory of DC
Be nothing but the smell of pee?
Comin' from a guy who sits and works on his crochet...

And a woman sighs
'Cause when the train's packed full she starts to dread
Guys treatin' her butt like its Wonder Bread
On the Metro (On the Metro)

And so she tells those guys
"Hey, watch out, don't invade my space!"
But half of them are already to second base
On the Metro (On the Metro)

Then one day in desperation
She says she'll drive today
She hits the road in her car
Traffic sucks, so she doesn't get far

Before she starts to cry
And when the train goes by, she knows she's wrong
And she misses the chimes as they go "bing-bong"
Doors closing...
On the Metro (On the Metro)

Comical, yes, but also a little too accurate. When my family and I moved me in, we were the ignorant, obnoxious tourists. Seriously, even somber-faced D.C.ers look more approachable than this multicolored labyrinth of dots and lines.

Once we kind of figured the basic stops out, I still managed to wait on the wrong side of the rail at least twice in that first week. When I visited my friend last spring, anticipating my time now, I announced to her as we utilized this vast, overwhelming transportation system that I was going to engage someone in conversation every time I took the Metro.

     “Jessica, don’t do that,” she rebuked. She had already toughened up to the atmosphere of the city. “People don’t want to talk to you.”

I’m just this kind Southern girl that wants to make someone's day a little brighter or make a new friend. What’s wrong with that? Looking around, though, I could see her point. Very few people were talking, most absorbed in their own piece of personal technology.

     “Well, I’m not putting headphones in. I’ll at least be available.”

Now that I’m here, I have broken my resolution a lot. It’s much easier to be a part of the masses, reaching for my Kindle and diving into a world of pleasure reading rather than awkwardly sitting next to a stranger. It didn't take long for me to modify my policy. If said stranger does not have any distraction – no phone, music, reading - then I won’t either. We will sit together, and perhaps I will break the ice with an awkward question about what stop he or she is headed to next. I’ve already managed to have a few conversations, two of which happened to be Italian speakers. In the Capitol, of all places, it was a treat to revert to the lovely language of Italiano. (Even if I say things incorrectly, mi manca la lingua!…) Public transport is so connected to travel for me in not just through the varied regions of Italy, but also in Brussels, Budapest and London (a Babel of modern cities) that I am still caught off-guard when three seats over I understand full conversations without any effort. It felt good to diversify the language make-up one morning on the D.C. Metro.

So, since that first week, I’ve wisened up a bit. Once I got a little too confident, trying to multi-task and still know when to get off. As the familiar “Bing bong door closing” sounded, I realized that I should have disembarked with the flood of people now moving to their next train. Obviously, I don’t have Metro-riding down to an art yet, but I can at least get to work on time.

After the convenience and liberty of a car, it’s hard to appreciate public transportation. I am grateful – I certainly wouldn’t want to be driving here either – but… the Metro is still such a pain. I have now endured a month of some of D.C.’s coldest, grayest mornings in weather history. No one is happy standing in dank, 18 degree tunnels. Delays are more consistent than a predictable schedule, so it’s necessary to leave plenty of margin time. Because my work is outside of the city, I am a salmon swimming upstream, heading out of the city while other enter; the good part about this is that I always have a seat, and no one can sneak to second base, as the Capitol Steps song mentioned. God help you if you are part of the mass flood of commuters headed the opposite direction. 

I have only experienced this circus experience once. After a ten minute wait, you try to stuff yourself into an overflowing train. There literally is no room. I am not exaggerating. These trains are more filled than Jew trains in the Holocaust. Helplessly, you hear the inevitable “Doors closing.” So you wait another ten minutes, becoming even more grateful for the time-distracting Kindle. You stand a little too close to the edge of the platform, staking out your next spot and silently communicating to all potential competitors that you will be on that next train. When it arrives, you win a spot, but you pay for it in personal space. It’s nonexistent.  The whole train is comparable to a tightly-sealed can of compressed sardines;  you don’t care, though. At least you're getting where you need to go.

When I encountered this for the first time, I counted six people whom I was in physical contact with at one time. You all just stand there holding your breath and trying not to make eye contact. The doors bing-bong open to my Rosslyn stop.  I fall out of the train, regaining space and balance. I climb the world’s third longest escalator, what is becoming  the majority of my exercise for the day, swipe out with that handy SmarTrip card and begin my journey home. Until tomorrow, Metro.  

Descending the Rosslyn Metro Escalator

D.C. Experience

It has begun. The city of suits. The Hill of politics. The morning metro of young, driven professionals perpetually climbing the achievement ladder. Here, there is always a new performance, a fine food to taste, or an exhibit to explore. If you’re bored, you’re blind. I find myself thrown into the bustling city life of our nation’s Capitol, where my “y’all’s” don’t sound right and my wrung on the ladder feels low, but at least my walking pace fits it. This is Washington, D.C., and for the next three months, it is my home.

For those of you who don’t know what the day-to-day life of Jessica Compton looks like in this new season, I am living in a swanky pent-house apartment just across the Potomac. I have the Lutheran CollegeWashington Semester to thank for this unreal opportunity. The LCWS trifecta made up of Dr. Joyner, Laura, and Doug have been the springboard for the beginning of a great semester, providing central housing at a fraction of the going rate, two evening classes, and a field trip every Wednesday.

Here is my typical day.

Promptly at 7:50 a.m., I catch the metro to InternationalJustice Mission’s headquarters, where I am acclimating to an eight hour work day and learning the ins and outs of marketing and social media. I sit on intern row with eighteen other fantastic friends who also have a heart and work ethic to protect the poor from violence. We’re all learning the menial ropes of the corporate world together, like how to manage the Outlook calendar and navigate SharePoint. At 8:30 sharp, the whole office takes part in “stillness,” a time to pray, read scripture, and be filled by the Holy Spirit before the start of a very fast-paced day. My peppy, talented area coordinator, Karen, sets a task list for a whole two hours, and then what do we do? Pray more. This time we pray corporately for the ongoing cases throughout the world. Like most D.C. interns, my position is unpaid, but if I was an IJM employee, I would be paid to pray for an hour every day. How great is that?! It certainly is rare.

Most of my work lately has revolved around the final days before the launch of The Locust Effect, by Gary Haugen, the founder and president of IJM. It’s about how the problem of everyday violence is inhibiting the humanitarian aid already offered. I’ve heard many of the stories of the oppressed are unforgivingly real and difficult to digest, but it is an important, eye-opening new perspective in our approach to help the world’s most vulnerable. We can discover it together on February 3, the official launch date of the book.

Following lunch, I continue to bolster the marketing team until 5:30. Other than learning how to walk around the office in heels (DC’s professional “costume of credibility, as Gary calls it), I only have praise for my new internship. The IJM team values and takes care of the interns, and I am so grateful to be actively contributing in some small way to the work of justice.

I am also taking two night classes – Global Agenda on Monday and Public Relations on Wednesday. No, these are not your typical English major classes. I’m making it work for my curriculum, though. Since I’m exploring marketing, I figured I should also dip my feet into the parallel universe of PR. One of my goals for this semester is to gain some real clarity on where my future career may be headed. I’m not going to make some perfect, unrealistic plan, but I only have a year left until I am out in the unforgiving “real world,” and it’s time to figure some things out. You can also thank PR for regular future blog posts about my time in D.C. (nothing motivates me like a grade!)

It’s time for a little heart-to-heart, though. I am doing really well; I love all that there is to do and see for a dork like me. But this is about the last new transition I can handle for a while. I feel like a plant who is struggling to really flourish. Every time I start to settle in, when I really become comfortable and make good some friends, I am uprooted again. Even people who love adventures desire some stability. I am only just beginning to get to know my new roommates, much less the other students in the program. I am going to have to learn when to spend time with interns, when to hang out with LCWS students, and when to catch up with all of the Charleston, Roanoke, and Italy friends I’ve made prior to this semester. Life – it’s a balancing game isn’t it? I suppose all of that will work itself out as the days march on.

They will press forward, of this my life has taught me time and again. Here in D.C., I will do my best to keep in step with their patriotic time.

The Glowing Girl, Final Day

Faithful

Georgia is my biological sister, but she is also my sister in Christ. I have enjoyed watching the breath of the Holy Spirit come upon her and make her life less about herself and more about others. Church transitioned from being less about going and more about being. Worship, particularly the much needed break on Wednesday nights, became a time to reverently honor the Lord. When she went to Honduras to help at the Lamb Institute, I think Georgia saw in those children a more raw, powerful form of Jesus, she felt God calling her to be used in His Kingdom.  

Georgia wanted to go to Furman, but there were a lot of financial questions that would have to be resolved to make that possible. She even felt like God might be calling her to go to The Citadel with “Lucy” after all. She certainly didn’t want to go, but she did want to submit to the Lord, knowing that if she did end up there, she really would have to depend on Him every hour. Thankfully, Furman worked out, but she hasn’t stopped listening to the Lord’s prodding. Kind Father, may I be your instrument is a weighty prayer, but Georgia has said it, and God is giving her opportunities.

Honduras

So Georgia, my sweet sister, you glowing girl. I and countless others are so blessed by you, by the Georgia who knows who she is and does not conform anything but the original mold. I would be far more boring without your enthusiasm and much less fulfilled as the oldest sister without your presence. I wish you the best of luck this coming semester. I am impressed (and yes, I acquiesce, even surprised) with the way you have stepped up to Furman’s academic rigors. You are a smart worker, and you have found the balance of work and play much better than I. Knowing that you have already found good community and lifelong relationships in college brings me great joy. 

The beloved roommate Julia. I'm not sure there's enough space in that room for these two crazies.

I am proud of you for facing challenges head on, for making sacrifices when necessary, and having an ear turned to God’s guidance. I pray that your faith only grows stronger and your shining light brighter the longer you walk with the Lord. As you head into track season, my prayer is that your passion for running is reignited while your body strengthens to meet D1 demands. I pray that when you meet discouragement in words or unmet goals, you will look to the One who loves you unceasingly and pours His affirmation upon you. There, submitting yourself once again, you will find victory.

Unbrushed hair on Christmas morning

She can sing some "Carolina Girls"!

Always a model

G & Nina - besties since diapers

Forever a goober

When we try to take Christmas pictures...

ROAR!

Awkward middle school years

Yeah. We did that one year.

Moxie

Bathing Suit Model

Sunscreen models

She'll always rescue me

Probs just slapped some booty

Speed demon

Sisters Reunited

Somewhere along the way we grew up and got kind of fashionable

Get ready. The chronological school pictures progression begins.

The grown up senior. Hot dayum.

Love you crazy girl.

The Glowing Girl, Day 6

Queen

Let’s all admit it. Georgia basically rules whatever she does.  It’s not like she’s vying for power, either. She is a natural leader, and people gladly hand the reins over to her. Wando probably needed to get rid of her; aside from giving someone else have a shot at winning an award, by the end of high school, Georgia could basically do whatever she wanted.

When she caught wind of a few cross-country mates being mildly harassed by some boys in the hallway, she stormed out lecturing them and threatening to write them up if she caught them again. Questioning who she was, she retorted, “Who am I?! I’m Coach Compton, and you do not mess with my girls!”

When sent to the administrator for wearing a tight superhero costume during Homecoming spirit week, she entered Mr. Hearn’s office confidently. Throwing a Snicker’s bar on the desk, she addressed him, “Mr. Blankenship doesn’t like my school spirit. You let him know I came to see you.”

“Get back to class, Georgia,” Mr. Hearn replied, shaking his head, unable to entirely conceal his grin.

Dress codes fall by the wayside in the name of school spirit

Though she listened to Mr. Hearn that time, there were plenty of other times when she should have been in class and was not. She would leave, roam the halls, and have half hour friendly conversations with administrators. Another loiterer passing by would be sternly admonished to return to class immediately.That's just the way Georgia is, though. She was not belligerently skipping class or skimping on work (at least, not most of the time), but she loves being around people. She was the four year old that tugged the shirt of the stranger in line at Wal-mart and introduced herself. She is still that girl. She has no fear; she is, in her own right, a 21st century Superwoman.

The Glowing Girl, Day 5

Woman of Words

These are some of Georgia’s most famous sayings. I’ll let them stand for themselves.

 Seriously? I’m about to punch you in the face.

Ey gurl, what up?

That’s it. You’re getting the pinkey. (Georgia’s less crude finger)

E stupido!

I’m done.

Livin the dream

Lookin’ Good, Feelin’ good

Haters gon’ hate. Proverbs 5:8

The Glowing Girl, Day 4

All Business

“Step right up get your tickets at Oooold South Carriage Company.” With her index finger pointing across the touring passerby, bouncing with every syllable, she adds, “Guarantee you’ll like it!”

Some of Georgia’s most satisfying childhood Saturdays were the rare opportunity when Hoffa allowed her to sell carriage tickets on the corner of Market and Anson Street. Under all that cuteness, at the age of five or fifteen, there is still a calculating businesswoman. After losing her first tooth and realizing that visits from the tooth fairy were profitable, her grin rapidly became more gapy, “losing” four teeth in just one week. If lemonade stands were slow, she began knocking on neighbor’s doors. Once after she and Rosa Marie partook in an enthusiastic day of selling, they decided to enjoy some of their profits at Fire House Subs. Only after Georgia downed a large combo meal while RoRie ate a small sandwich did Georgia recommend splitting the revenue equally. RoRie agreed to that, not realizing the injustice of the settlement. Since tentative future career goals include owning a Chik-fil-A franchise someday, I'm hoping her ways have become a bit more honest in the last few years.

The Glowing Girl, Day 3

Unwavering

Georgia has learned not to shop with the rest of the Compton women. The indecisiveness of Rosa Marie, Mama, and I is inhibiting; we go back and forth, wasting time, trying something on again, unsure of whether the price tag is worth it. Not Georgia. She knows what she wants, and she is willing to pay for it. I remember in middle school when those gray New Balance lace-up shoes were popular. The four of us ventured into a large Carnival shoe store. She and I both tried those “stylish” shoes on first. She was finished shopping. I  proceeded to try on every other option in my size. As Georgia grew more impatient in the following two hours, I, in the end, returned to my first choice.

This unwavering attitude goes far beyond the shopping cart, though. She knows which movie to rent, which food to order, and what to say in any circumstance. She’s not afraid of being bold, and she sticks to her gut. She even knows what talent to win titles in the Miss Wando pageant when she has no known performing talent: Year One, bring out the black light and golf balls; Year Two, convince the younger shag-dancing brother to help you.  Her decisiveness not only makes her efficient and successful, but it also leaves her without regrets.

The Glowing Girl, Day 2

Roomies
When I was in the sixth grade, one dishwasher replacement progressed into a full-blown house renovation. In the throes of the developing plans, our parents made a deal: if we shared it, Georgia and I could have the old master bedroom. We agreed.

The first few months were hard. My type A ways and her whirlwind of chaos consistently clashed; fighting regularly ensued.

“For the love of God, pick up your clothes!” I would yell. “People live here – I live here – not pigs! I cannot deal with it another day.”

 Tape went down on the ground. My half and your half.  It might as well have been invisible. After an ineffective week of border restriction, I pulled the tape, but dissension continued. When PB Teen magazines started coming through the mail slot, I spotted one page displaying a nook I liked, and low-budget redecorations began at a fraction of the Pottery Barn price. Georgia would have no part, but she certainly didn’t mind having friends over to goggle over it, rarely giving me credit.

I don’t remember when breakthrough finally saved us. It was almost as if, under these smaller living constraints, we had to relearn each other in proportionately closer intimacy. If our room was a volcano of fighting, at least the eruptions became less active. They were replaced with lights-out pillow talks and fashion advice. In those first years together, our sisterhood became doubled bonded by friendship. Sharing a room with Georgia was the greatest blessing of my adolescence.

This made moving out one of the poorer decisions I made. Georgia hit puberty kind of late, so the mood swings didn’t really set in until I was in twelfth grade. Couple that with the late-in school arrival senior privilege I gained (and thus later sleeping schedule) second semester, and I was ready to have my own room again. After barely catching a conceding, “Fine,” from Rosa Marie to switch rooms one morning, I proceeded to move all of my stuff back into the original room of my childhood, never announcing to Georgia my intentions, much less my actions. When my sisters came home from school that day, they were both shocked. I think I hurt Georgia’s feelings, too. After a few weeks, I started missing her a lot, and I asked if I could move back in. The upset emotions had not yet worn off, and I was told I had to live with my (poor) decision. Fortunately, much good even came from this bad choice. Once I left for college, Rosa Marie and Georgia continued to share a room, becoming close friends also.

This pretty much defines our roommate relationship