300 Lake Street
(And other stories about living and working with immigrants)
This essay first appeared on my old blog as It is a Privilege: Lessons in Humility and Compassion in March 2017, shortly after the first immigration halt (aka “Muslim ban”) of this administration. I was feeling pretty helpless, and needed to remind myself—and hopefully remind others—that there are things that we can do, right now, to help others who have been unfairly targeted.
I’ve made some minor edits to the body of the essay—you’ll notice I kept much of the previous wording for 2017, and I added a few updates at the end. I think it’s important to note that in some ways, not much has changed. I’ve tried to make sure that language is up to date for 2025, but please let me know if I’m using an outdated or insensitive term, or if you have any questions about any of this. I’m happy to talk to and learn from you!
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For ten of our eleven years in Vermont, we lived at 300 Lake Street, on the top floor in Apt. 407. Other than my childhood home, my time in that apartment is the longest I’ve ever lived in one place. The building was only five years old when we moved there in 2009, and was the first LEED-certified housing built in the state of Vermont.
As a young married couple, one of us on an AmeriCorps salary, the rent was affordable ($1200 a month for two bedrooms, one of only eight market rate apartments in the 40-unit building), and the location—tucked quietly next to the downtown, right next to the miles-long bike path and Lake Champlain—was a dream come true.
It was also built by what would become the Champlain Housing Trust, and housed families of mixed incomes, ethnicities, and backgrounds. When you hear about housing built with a percentage of it remaining affordable, this was it! And while living in an apartment wasn’t something I wanted to do forever, I’m here to tell you that mixed income housing works.
It was this experience—living alongside people who spoke different languages than I, ate different foods, had different childhoods and wore different clothes—as well as a handful of other experiences that taught me not to fear those who are typically viewed as Other. In fact, there is no “Other”; it is a social construct meant to uphold a power dynamic that leads to misunderstanding, oppression, and violence.
So instead of devolving into hopelessness and overwhelm as we experience a kind of deja vu that many of us never asked for, I wanted to tell some stories about people I have had the privilege of interacting with. It turns out that (as of 2025) I have had 16 years of experience working with refugee and immigrant families in some capacity (volunteer, employment, and personal, and in both religious and secular settings), and my husband has 17 years of experience in an even more hands-on role. Between the two of us, that’s 30 years of awareness (at the very least) of the refugee plight and some of the legal obstacles/processes they face.
In sum: I don’t claim to be an expert, but I’m not a newbie, either. All of these experiences would be far too many to recount here, but I want to give a snapshot of how I’ve come to think the way I do about refugees and immigrants, and offer some simple, concrete ways that any one of us can reframe our point of view.
(I also want to point out that I am speaking from my own perspective, and that the most important stories are the ones directly from the people living them. I’ve also tried to avoid the White Savior model; though its legacy is present in all kinds of spaces, being aware of it and actively working to dismantle it is necessary for moving forward in a humane, collaborative way).
Global Refuge (formerly Lutheran Immigration and Resettlement Services) and Lutheran Social Services of the National Capital Area Washington, D.C. (2003)
In January 2003, my friend Cathy and I spent 10 frigid days in Washington, D.C. for our cross-cultural field work term for seminary. When our original plans fell through, we kind of just showed up at the offices of Lutheran Social Services of the National Capital Area in Falls Church, VA, and were put immediately to work in the Lutheran Immigrant and Refugee Services department. We did a lot of administrative work, like filing documents and data entry.
But towards the end of our stay, we had the opportunity to do more hands-on tasks. In what felt like a generous move by the staff at LSS, I was given the responsibility to tell a refugee family that after 2 years of waiting (and mountains of paperwork, questioning, and everything else the long and complicated resettlement process entails), their loved ones were finally cleared to come to the U.S. Saying they were overjoyed is an understatement. It was an enormous privilege to be able to do that as a volunteer; I was barely aware of the significance of it at the time. As a 23-year-old white girl from South Carolina, I had no concept of what they had been through. But I knew enough to recognize that I was in the midst of a holy moment.
On the morning of our very last day, we accompanied one of the employees on a seatbelt-less joy ride around D.C. to pick up a couch and deliver it to a New American family. The staff member was an older man who had emigrated from Vietnam and whose English was often difficult to interpret, all of which provided some hilariously awkward moments as the three of us tried to move the longest, whitest couch I’d ever seen from its original location (an upper floor of an upscale condo) to its new home at an apartment in a government-subsidized housing neighborhood.
When the family saw their new couch, they were thrilled, and thanked us profusely. I didn’t feel like I deserved their gratitude, since all I had actually done was carry this enormous couch down a flight of stairs and ungracefully load it into and out of the back of a rental vehicle (and survived the wild van ride). But thinking about it later—being in the thick of it, sweating in the January temperatures as we careened across the city with a pristine, expensive couch hanging precariously out of the back of a cargo van, taking it to its new life—this experience was real, unlike anything I’d ever done before, and it was humbling.
I felt like I hadn’t done anything to deserve being a part of these moments; they had come to me, and I was simply a witness to a world I had really never given much thought to before. I had learned so much about the necessity of this work and about myself, and that I wanted to continue to do what I could towards assisting people who are often overlooked.
Iglesia Luterana Cristo Rey Border Immersion Program El Paso, TX and Juárez, México (2005)
A couple of years later, I was working at a Lutheran church in Arizona. The previous summer, I had taken the high school youth group to North Carolina to do service projects in the mountains and give them a chance to experience servant work and summer camp (including whitewater rafting, as you do) in a totally different part of the country. We served at a food bank, a Salvation Army-type shelter, and at the Western NC Nature Center, and the youth were able to experience all of the summer camp fun, too. It was a fantastic trip, and I know that it made an impact on them.
The next year, we wanted to do something really different and challenging. A friend was working at a border ministry and had invited me to come experience what he was up to. Along with two pastors from the other ELCA church in town, I co-led a group of high schoolers on a “reverse mission trip” to El Paso, Texas and Juarez, Mexico. The idea being that most mission trips involve going somewhere “foreign” (a different country, or a “poor” part of America) and building a school or tutoring kids. This trip was different; we were going there for the people to minister to and teach us. For our little group of high school juniors, seniors, and adults, this experience pretty much pried our eyes open.
We spent a day volunteering at an orphanage near Juarez as well as at the Lutheran church in El Paso where we were staying, whose mission and bilingual ministry were geared towards mostly New American (Mexican and South American) families. But the rest of the trip was for us to learn about what life was like on the border.
We heard from a young man who was in the country illegally, and he told his story of why he had come to the U.S. and how he had been shot at by Border Patrol officers while trying to cross the Rio Grande. He was in great spirits, and for all the hardship he had faced and knew would continue, expressed that his life was much better now that he was in the U.S. He hoped to become an American citizen some day.
We talked to an attorney who gave us a step-by-step overview of the lengthy process that immigrants must go through in order to obtain legal status, and the reasons behind why some people feel like they can’t wait that long. Poverty, unemployment, dangerous living conditions, and no hope for a better future, to name a few, cause people to make desperate decisions. Many reluctantly end up paying for “coyotes” (smugglers) to transport them across, even though it’s incredibly expensive and risky.
We even met with a Border Patrol agent (who happened to be Hispanic) who told us about why he believed in border security and the challenges he faces daily. I asked him if he had any relatives in Mexico. He did, and he was adamant that if they wanted to migrate to the U.S. they must follow the law.
All of the people we met showed us just how complicated, desperate, and personal these situations are, and that there is not a “one size fits all” approach.
One part of the trip that really stuck with me was when we went to a neighborhood in Juarez that was filled with houses made of plywood and cardboard and the streets were only dirt. Sad, scruffy little dogs wandered aimlessly. Sanitation was challenging because there was no sewage system, and people had to make difficult choices about where they could relieve themselves. So several women had started a business selling non-flushing toilets with lime in the bowls, which would dissolve waste and keep the neighborhood sanitary. As someone who has never had to worry about whether I had a flushing toilet (except on camping trips), I was floored by the conditions that these people had to live in, and amazed at their optimism. They were making small changes for themselves that would greatly increase the quality of life for themselves, their families, and their neighbors. Since when have I done anything that profound? (For them, it was simply a necessity).
At the time, Juarez was known for being very dangerous—it definitely was not a hot spot for tourists to visit. But we went anyway, to see firsthand why so many people were trying desperately to leave (and just as many who were trying to make it better to stay). I went to the border in hopes of learning a little bit about a completely different world than my own. I came back with open eyes and a more open heart, and a much more dynamic understanding of the fluidity of a “border” and why we need to work to protect and assist those seeking a better life, whatever their nationality.
The DREAM Program Burlington and Fletcher, Vermont (2008-2018)
In 2008, I left Arizona, got married, and moved with my husband to Burlington, Vermont. I started working as Camp Director for The DREAM Program, which began as a small organization of Dartmouth college students providing positive role modeling to kids living in poverty across the Connecticut River in White River Junction, Vermont. DREAM is now in three states (Vermont, metro Boston, and metro Philadelphia) and has 350 mentoring pairs across the region. As Camp Director, my primary responsibility is to oversee our adventure programs (summer and winter adventure camps, summer sailing program, teen programming, and more), but as a staff person at a small non-profit, I (along with everyone else) do much more.
The population we serve are kids ages 5-18 living in low-income, government-subsidized housing neighborhoods. We provide college-student mentors and multiple opportunities for these kids to basically “just be kids” and have the same opportunities that their higher-income peers have. All of our programming is completely free for them, thanks to our relationship with AmeriCorps, the many housing authorities with whom we partner, and our many individual financial supporters.
But I’m not saying all of this just to outline what’s on my resume. The point is that working directly with people who (bluntly and disparagingly) are called “poor” has given me a much broader perspective on what that term really means.
One thing just to be clear: These kids aren’t stupid. They know that they don’t have all the same resources that other kids do, but they’re not feeling sorry for themselves, either. They may not recognize that they face certain hangups because they are in the midst of generational poverty, but that doesn’t stop them from having hopes and dreams like every other American kid.
The truth is that first-generation college students from poor families are extremely likely to drop out because of a lack of support, both at home and at school. The college graduation rate of these students is in the single digits. DREAM seeks to correct this by providing college student mentors for kids as young as 5, as well as numerous educational, recreational, and “fun” opportunities to help them learn and grow. By the time they reach high school graduation, the hope is that they have been exposed to all of the options available to them, whether it’s college, full-time work, the military, or something else. We want to see kids succeed, but there’s no cookie-cutter definition of success.
One of the programs I am most proud of is our College Road Trip, which (in 2017) is in its 9th year. A small group of high school sophomores and juniors visits a dozen or so colleges in the Northeast over the course of a week during the summer. One year they went to the New York City area, one year it was the Boston area, and last year they visited almost every major Vermont school. For many of these youth, college is something they know they are interested in but don’t quite know the steps to get there. Guidance counselors, swamped by the number of youth they must support already, often write these kids off. So we give them an opportunity to visit a variety of different schools, talk to admissions and financial aid officers, get help with applications, and more. It’s a fun week and gives our teens a chance to bond while learning more about the options available to them.
(2025 note: I’m so proud to say that several of our teens who attended a Road Trip have made great decisions about post-high school plans, working for DREAM and other non-profits and making their communities better. One is currently a graduate student at Columbia University seeking a Masters in Social Work. These young people are absolutely spectacular).
About half of the kids we work with in Vermont live in the towns of Burlington and Winooski, and are from New American and resettled refugee families originally from countries like Somalia, Nepal, Burundi, and Bhutan. The other half are kids who live in rural Vermont, which is very ethnically homogeneous. The DREAM family is very diverse across Vermont (even more so with the youth from Philadelphia and Boston added in), so bringing all these kids together can be a bit of a cultural challenge.
We have learned over the years that we sometimes need to approach things differently when working with our New American families. For instance, while all of our youth speak English, many of their parents don’t. It can be difficult to get a permission form signed when a parent doesn’t know what they’re signing, and sometimes using the kids to interpret (translate) is a big no-no because it can create a lopsided power dynamic within the family structure. So with the help of a two-year grant from the Vermont Women’s Fund, we developed a summer employment program in which a small group of young women from our resettled refugee families were paid to interpret our forms with families who could not read English. We were able to both communicate with our families and pay a generous stipend to young women who may not have had opportunities for summer employment.
Some other employment opportunities are the Counselor-in-Training program, where we pay teens to serve as CITs at Camp DREAM for a week. It’s not much, but for many teens it’s their first job and is a stepping stone to future employment while they’re in high school. We also have hired former DREAM mentees as summer camp counselors, paid summer interns, and regular staff. My hope is that we can continue this trend and offer even more jobs to the youth who are in our program.
Is the program perfect? Of course not. Do kids slip through the cracks? You bet they do. Is the work ever going to be finished? (Do I even have to ask?) DREAM is just one organization of hundreds across the country that is working to alleviate poverty in the long-term, and I can honestly say that it’s very, very slow-going work. But I believe our strongest assets are the relationships we build with the mentors, families, and youth. When youth see that they belong to a part of a community (“the DREAM family”), they recognize that they matter, even if there are other entities in our society telling them they don’t.
300 Lake Street and the Champlain Housing Trust, Burlington, Vermont (2008/9-2019)
When we moved to Vermont, my husband got a position as an AmeriCorps member with an organization called the Champlain Housing Trust. CHT’s main purpose is to provide perpetually affordable homes (to rent and to buy) for people living below or moderately above the poverty line. In a place like Burlington where the cost of living is very high, that can mean that teachers, social workers, and other people in traditionally “middle class” occupations can afford to be homeowners through CHT, whereas it would otherwise be out of reach.
Since 1984, CHT has helped thousands of families buy their own home and supported tens of thousands of families with affordable rentals through the assistance of federally funded grants, homeownership workshops, and a lot of hand-holding through the homeownership process. My husband is now one of those people who work with families every step of the way to homeownership, including meeting with lawyers, home inspectors, sellers, prospective buyers, insurance people, and more. As anyone who has purchased a home knows, it is a complicated process, and for a population who isn’t used to receiving support, CHT helps them find their way.
CHT has benefitted us personally, as well. Our second year in Vermont, we moved into a 2-bedroom CHT apartment and have been there ever since. And while we’ve outgrown the space and are thinking about our next move, we are extraordinarily grateful for the place we have called home for the past 8 years. (2025 note: we lived there for two more years until we moved to Georgia in 2019).
The building sits right on Lake Champlain, and we can see New York’s Adirondacks on the other side. Waterfront Park, which hosts summer concerts, brew fests, and the finish line for the Vermont City Marathon, is basically in our front yard. (Bernie Sanders announced his 2016 presidential run from our “front yard”; yep, we were there)! We can walk to the bike path, a children’s science museum, the sailing center, and the lake within minutes. It is a lovely place to live.
Why am I singing the praises of my apartment building? Because all of the other buildings around us are expensive condos, and this one is specifically for mixed-income tenants. Most of the apartments are designated for low- to moderate-income (as well as fixed-income) individuals and families, along with a handful of market-rate apartments (even though ours was market-rate, we weren’t subject to rent spikes or unwanted landlord requirements, which made it affordable over the decade we lived there). The location, the views, the fact that heat and hot water are included, and most importantly, affordable rent—these are things that would normally be out of reach in Burlington for people of limited means.
Our building is incredibly diverse, given what most people think about the demographics of Vermont. There are people with disabilities, veterans, resettled refugee and New American families, white Trump-stickers-on-their-car families, the elderly, college-educated people, single moms and single dads, people struggling with addiction, plenty of kids, and many more. A conservative guess would be that my neighbors come from at least 4 different countries other than the U.S.
The resettled refugee program in Burlington has been going on for 25 years. It is a privilege to live alongside such a variety of people. When I was pregnant, many neighbors reached out to congratulate me. But a few went the extra mile. One woman passed down a baby carrier, infant seat, and brand new pink and white dress for my daughter to wear this summer. This woman came to the U.S. from Egypt with her husband over a decade ago. Her family lived in the apartment next door when we first moved in. We’ve watched her kids (two boys and a girl) grow up, and we are always the ones who help the kids out with their school fundraisers (we are also reliable candy distributors at Halloween). She told me privately (knowing that I have a daughter) that while she loves all of her children equally, it’s so much more fun being the parent of a girl! The family goes back to Egypt every summer to visit relatives. Will they be allowed to go this year? (Or, the bigger question: will they be allowed to come back without hassle, or at all)?
Another neighbor, also a mother of three, is originally from Somalia. One day, when she noticed that I was expecting, her eyes lit up and she hugged me excitedly. No matter that we had barely spoken prior to this encounter. A couple of months after the baby was born she brought by an industrial-size box of diapers from CostCo. I know where she works. She makes minimum wage. She did not have to do this; it was because she was kind, and because she cared, and because people take care of each other.
Both of these women are Muslim.
Just a few minutes ago, in the laundry room, another woman wearing a hijab was doing her laundry, just like me. No big deal, just normal stuff. These people (who seem, at first glance, to be so different from ourselves) are just living their lives the best way they can. When we realize this, there is nothing scary about it.
I become stronger because I have a greater understanding and appreciation for those who are very different from myself. And while this knowledge may be limited, that’s okay. It only takes a little bit to realize that it’s important to care about them, too.
Final Thoughts (2017 and 2025)
I haven’t shared all of the above in order to toot my own horn. As you can see, I have more experience interacting with New Americans than some, but still a lot less than others. I’ve shared because I think a lot of us feel disheartened: what can I possibly do?
I think that the first step is recognizing what you’ve already done and what you’re capable of as a compassionate human. Have there been times you’ve helped others who are different from yourself, and found some common ground? There you go. You’ve just begun the process of helping good defeat evil. You are a superhero!
But wait—you can’t stop there! Patting yourself on the back and then turning your back might be the worst thing you could do.
I wanted to share these experiences so that some of you may see the logical path I have taken to where I am today philosophically on the topic of immigration. I urge you to at least trace your own experiences back to where your philosophy begins and why you feel the way you do. Your experiences are valid, too.
Why do you feel the way you do, and is it borne from a place of love or a place of fear?
As American—no, Global—citizens, we can’t afford to ignore the bigger picture. I’ve heard a lot of arguments from immigration naysayers (and I’m paraphrasing here):
“I’m sure those nice ladies in your building are totally fine; I’m just worried about terrorists, so we have to stop letting everyone in without proper vetting.”
“We shouldn’t be trying to take care of the rest of the world until we can take care of ourselves; what about Americans who are poor and homeless, and what about our veterans?”
“I didn’t march and I’m not protesting because I’m not a whiner; stop complaining and pull yourself up by your bootstraps.”
My response to comment number one: When we think of people who don’t look or speak like us as Other, it is easy to group them together and think that that which is foreign is scary. So many Americans who have opinions like this one have had no experience with real Muslim people, their religion, and their culture other than what they are told by Fox News and the like (and some of those people are actually, truly scary).
But once you spend time with people and recognize your similarities, it’s actually quite easy to overcome these feelings of fear. I lived alongside Muslims for ten years and never once felt threatened in any way.
As for the “vetting” process, it’s almost laughable (if it wasn’t so sad) that anyone would think that we’re just “letting people in.” From experiences in DC and El Paso I know that the process is long, incredibly thorough, and is enough. Here’s a quick summary of what the process looks like from a source I trust.
My response to comment number two: As I briefly discussed earlier, the Champlain Housing Trust does a great job of serving all kinds of people: resettled refugees and New Americans, Americans, those with limited means, veterans, and the unhoused. All of those groups have been able to find housing through CHT. I know it is going to come as a total surprise (!), but CHT has not solved the housing crisis and ended homelessness. If what you want is an end to homelessness or an end to generational poverty before we can look outward, you’re talking about decades upon decades of work, and by that point hundreds of thousands of people in places like Syria or Somalia have lost their lives.
That’s the problem with a lot of shortsighted perceptions like these; people are looking for perfect solutions. CHT is working on solving a small part of the crisis (housing in Vermont) but there are plenty of people and organizations around the country proving that it doesn’t have to be an “us before them” issue.
It’s an “us and them” issue. Until we’re all just “us”.
My response to comment number three: It’s true that we all have the responsibility of holding ourselves accountable for at least part of our own success or failure. Some people just have it much harder than others. I at least know I have a roof over my head, a reliable salary, a caring family, something to eat, affordable health care, and much more. Some of these things were handed to me, and some I had to work hard for. Some people have only a couple of those things, or less, and can you imagine how much harder your life would be without even one of them?
I feel silly saying it, but I have to: it is a proven fact that the cards are stacked against various groups in our society (non-English speakers. Women. African-Americans. People with disabilities. People who identify as transgender. And much more). What’s so wrong with diversity, equity, and inclusion? So instead of thinking of others as “whiners”, try to walk in their shoes for just a bit: what larger pieces have been holding them back? How can you have a better understanding of what their lives are like? What could you afford to lose and still be okay? Probably not much.
I believe in having conversations with others who have differing viewpoints, not shutting people down*. We need real conversations to try to understand others’ perspectives. Don’t act like having a conversation with someone you think is “the enemy” is a sign of weakness or may be too difficult to bear. Talking to one another and seeing each others’ humanity is truly the only way to enact understanding and change.
*AND. Calling out prejudice when you see it is imperative, too. It is hard and it is messy when emotions are involved. What one person views as a joke may be deeply offensive to others. Have some grace, but blatant racism (or, say, Nazism, perhaps?) simply doesn’t get a pass.
Our collective heart is sick right now. If you voted for the current administration, please know that I ask this sincerely with hopes of better understanding: Are you living in fear? Thinking a transgender person is going to attack your child in a bathroom is living in fear. Cutting off funding for clean water in African countries is living in fear. Abolishing DEI initiatives is living in fear. Censoring news organizations is living in fear. Rejecting science is living in fear. (Should I continue?) Help me understand.
We’re at a definitive moment in our history (again. Sigh). Do you really, truly think that you’re going to be better off in four years? (Unless you’re an eccentric billionaire, good luck with that). Or will you lean into empathy and love? It’s a no-brainer for me.
Final FINAL thoughts: Four Action Steps!
Get outside of your comfort zone, and take as many people with you as you can. At Lutheran Social Services, it was daunting to just show up and say, “I’m here to help.” With Cristo Rey, it was also a little bit scary to make the journey to Juarez, especially after hearing so much in the news about how dangerous a place it is. And the first time I set foot in a low-income neighborhood (where one of the DREAM offices was located), I had to get over my preconceived notions about what I would find (drug dealers! Gang violence! Trash everywhere!), and realized that the kids playing soccer and the grandmothers tending small flowerbeds were far more common sights.
Part of my own experience has been opening others’ minds, as well, especially young people who have not been exposed to the opportunity and just don’t know what’s out there yet. I was once just like that, too.
Open your ears before you open your mouth. As I mentioned earlier, the stories of immigrants and refugees themselves are the most important of all. I am just conveying a snapshot of my own experiences. I have much to learn! And so do we all. Listen to them and what they want. Don’t assume you know what’s best for them. And just like Americans are different from Canadians, keep in mind that a refugee from Nepal is drastically different than a New American from Mexico or an asylee from Burundi. It takes time to listen to others, but you will always learn something new. What a gift!
If you’re looking for God, look to the mundane, not the mountaintop (at first). Yes, a donation of $100 to a charitable organization might feel like it’s “not enough,” but it’s a tangible way to get involved and is much appreciated. My first experience involved a lot of grunt work (data entry) and then only glimpses of actual holiness. Don’t always expect a “wow” moment; you are at least one part of it, and sometimes that is enough.
The organizations I mentioned need your help. Financial help right now is deeply appreciated, especially since the government has cut funding to many of them (or is threatening to) as of January 2025.
Here are the links again to learn more, volunteer, and donate:
I was lucky to be able to graduate from Northern Arizona University with an MA in Sustainable Communities. So many people have asked me, “What do you do with that degree?” This is part of it. All I’ve shared here—what it looks like to take care of one another—that is a sustainable community.
Let’s continue to build our local and global community, together. And show the world that we are better than this administration. Because as humans, we most certainly are.
Burlington, Vermont is located on the land of the Wabanaki and N’dakina (Abenaki) nations.
Image: 300 Lake Street, as pictured on the Champlain Housing Trust website. Our unit was in the back of the building on the top floor.