A place called home

Among the many things on my plate, I am tasked with visiting a site that catered to a population with whom I am uncomfortable. This task is for my Multicultural class, a class in which I love and has helped me look at life and people in a different way. The population I have chosen is homeless youth. I am not uncomfortable with the homeless, but youth...let's just say I don't have them on my radar for my social work career.

I ended up getting connected with Urban Peak, a homeless shelter for youth. Maybe I should say re-connected...I volunteered there in high school making lunch for the youth. I wound up making breakfast this morning and it was an interesting experience. Being in the shelter, there are all those shelter smells...body order, unwashed hair, the smell of people being in a small space together, sharing the most intimate of moments...sleeping. That time we all have to ourselves, to think and dream and just...be. When I got to the kitchen, I was told there were leftover eggs, potatoes and pancakes I could heat up, which I did. The smell of this food lingered with me all day. It wasn't a really pleasant smell, actually. Day old food heated up just isn't the same as a freshly cooked breakfast, with bacon and eggs in the pan and spices that make for a savory meal. This meal smelled stale, sad, broken...much like the lives of the youth I served.

At the SafeHouse, things are different. Food is fresher; the women cook lively meals full of spices and each meal is cooked fresh; there are no leftover meals. At the youth shelter, I felt like what the teens were offered was an afterthought. I am not saying this to demean what those at the shelter do everyday, but the comfort of cooking is probably not their speciality. I started thinking of the comfort of home. Last night, I walked into my parents house and dinner smelled delightful. The table was set nicely, and I knew I was walking into a comfort that I have as a privileged person. These youth I saw today were left with the smell of sleep, day old eggs and hopelessness.

I wish for everyone that scent can be a beacon of hope. Those Glade candles that smell of apple pie; the Anthropologie candle I light every night that smells of sweetness and comfort. I wish for these privileged smells to be a part of everyone's life, knowing that they are the scents of home.