When I arrived in Ketchikan, Alaska, a small island nestled in the Tongass National Rain Forest in southeast Alaska, it was a rainy, windy, and cold day in March. However, the air was fresh. My new boss picked me up at the airport. While waiting for my luggage, we got acquainted and quickly got down to business, discussing my role in the adult education center. Wasting no time, he asked how I felt about working in the local jail. The first thought that crossed my mind was: he didn't mention this in the phone interview. Jail, I thought? Dirty toilets, sleazy characters, and tough looking correction officers crossed my mind. After confessing some of my fears and anxieties over this novel task, I agreed to it.

We then discussed my housing, as I had faithfully placed it in his hands. He told me the other VISTA Volunteer had offered her home until I could find a place of my own. He failed to tell me she had three children, which was not a problem. It was just a bit unexpected. These first few minutes, however, certainly projected the relationship he and I were to have in the next year. He playfully dropped bombs, and l, with little resentment, embraced them as one more challenge in my life that, if nothing else, would build more character. And although I had my rough moments with my boss, I have to say I appreciated the freedom he gave me in my new position. I was able virtually to create my job within a few guidelines that had been with the organization since the beginning of time.

So, my first month was spent in a small three-bedroom apartment with a VISTA Volunteer and her three daughters. I shared the bottom bunk in her ten-year-old daughter's bedroom. Cindy, the VISTA, grew up in the community, so I quickly learned the history, the gossip, the past, present, and future tales of the entire town. It overwhelmed me at first. The arrogant side of me began to judge this woman and her family: one moment, I was the confidante to Ketchikan's seediest past; the next, I was being converted by the local Mormon missionaries who visited the children weekly. Of course it wasn't until after I left Cindy's home a month later that I realized that she was more resourceful then a tight Republican. This turned out to be her greatest asset: I walked away from her ready to handle anything in this small town that was to come my way.

I was polite at first, biting my tongue when the young missionaries preached their faith, but even in my greatest depths of cynicism, I was touched by their youthful . . . innocence. We often bumped into each other in town that year, and they even visited me occasionally, with the clear understanding that I was not to be converted. One visit, in particular, will always stand out in my mind. It was late Saturday morning. I was just waking up and the two "elders" stopped in, probably on their tenth call that morning. I think they were amused with my coffee addiction (I told them I couldn't talk until at least the first cup) and slightly embarrassed over my casual attire (sweats from the night before). For some reason, on that morning our conversation became real.

It was rainy (when isn't it rainy in Ketchikan?) and one of the "elders" even accepted a cookie I had offered (a no-no in their religion). Suddenly we were just nineteen- and twenty- three-year-olds: talking about our families our home-town friends, our hobbies/goals/dreams, etc. They taught me the term "skater" (the slang word for a skate boarder). We discovered that we have a common bond - we were all volunteers lonely for familiarity. They never did convert me to their faith but I think we all converted each other to the universal faith of accepting our need for each other. And most importantly, admitting this to one another.

What I learned was that just about everyone local or transplant, was more than willing to share their resources with me.

My second home was an apartment-sitting job on Water Street, the street parallel to the Tongass Narrows. Like old Route 66 to truckers, the Tongass Narrows acts as the gateway to all marine life, cruise ships, and float planes. Although I found this apartment romantic at first because of the beautiful scenery I quickly learned that the piercing hum of the float plane engines at seven a.m. was more irritating than the mosquito that vanishes when you turn the light on. It felt as though the plane entered my right ear, flew through my head, peaking in my eardrums, and blasted out of my left ear. Still, the scenery was pretty.

By early May, I had been blessed with many new people in my life. The running joke in town was that I did not have a last name; I simply was known as "Caren-the-VISTA-Volunteer." A local artist heard I was looking for a place to stay and she offered me a room in exchange for some work around her house. Three days before I moved in, I stopped by to say "hello." She graciously waved her left hand to me, introducing me to a wedding band that she had not been wearing in our previous meeting, and said with the smile of a six-year-old on Easter morning, "By the way, there's been a new development."

She had married the weekend before in Juneau, where she and her husband posed in American Gothic style for their wedding picture - in front of the Mendenhall Glacier, dressed like Russian immigrants. Being the good soul she is, she insisted I stay with them. So there we were, just the three of us; the newlyweds and their newly adopted daughter, "Caren-the-VISTA-Volunteer." She too grew up in Ketchikan, knew the woman I had stayed with previously, and either confirmed or denied the information I had received.

A domino effect of house-sitting took place after this. I was rapidly becoming a house/pet sitter in demand. From filling holes dug up by a lonely dog who missed his owners to heating the cage of a stubborn cockatoo when the heater broke; from walking to the office in wind and rain to driving in a Volvo, I adjusted to adversity and quickly learned to expect the unexpected in this small town.

When I wasn't living the life of island housing authority, I was working in the office or the jail. In the office, my tasks varied from answering the phones to teaching English as a second language. I was amazed to see this small town attract people from all over - Poland, Korea, Guatemala, Mexico. There was one client, in particular, who will always stand out in my mind for her perseverance. She came over to this country from Poland and taught me more than she will ever realize. Because she was only a few years younger then I, we connected immediately. In the next several months, we enjoyed lengthy conversations, focusing on verbal comprehension. To this day, I'm not sure whose skills improved the most.

I shared with her my family stories, telling her how my older brothers and I are spread all over the country. She shared hers with me, telling me how her younger brothers share a small house with her parents. She shared with me the hope her family had for her to gain a formal education here in the United States, because she couldn't get the same in Poland. Her long term goal was to return to Poland to teach - to give back to the people she cares most about. The pressure she was under at her age, the real life pressure, is more than most American college students will probably experience in a lifetime. At the sake of sounding too patriotic, I must say that by the end of our conversations, I always walked away feeling grateful for the freedom we have here in the U.S.

The time I spent working in the jail introduced me to yet another level of freedom. Like most people, I expected our jails to be filled with men and women born out of a Steven King novel. The first day I walked into the jail, I allowed the weakness of my ego to handcuff me more than the ironic strength of the environment. As the doors locked behind me and the elevator dropped to the first floor, my body molded into a mass of fear consuming the core of my being. Then I met Judy, the educational coordinator. She brought me into her office which overlooked the basketball court. The high chain-link fence surrounding the court hid in front of the massive rock carved around the entire facility. She offered me coffee as I, in awe, observed her office. It was decorated with educational books, the Tao te Ching, and a pleasant looking Kermit the Frog, sitting on the file cabinet, watching the guys play basketball (the inmates quickly became "the guys" because of the relaxed mood Judy brought into the library). Within moments my fear was gone.

In the next year, Judy taught me how to open my heart to a place that fear usually consumes. I learned from her not to label the inmates but to see them as members of the community. She knew that I would eventually bump into them in the local theater or coffee shop. The passion and humility Judy brought into that jail library will always stay with me (as well as the wonderful Filipino meals Rusty, the cook, would create. I'm convinced his food was beyond what any restaurant could do).

The policy not to discuss the inmates' reasons for vacationing in their local "Ritz Carleton" turned out to be helpful to the writer's workshop, as we were able to focus on something other than legal matters. The inmates had their own newsletter, which consisted of informational articles, essays, poetry, and personal tales. I'd have to say the most enjoyable project was when we wrote essays on Martin Luther King, Jr., and later produced them on the local radio station.

At one point, we were writing a play. We kept it simple by creating a setting then establishing a character for each person who was involved with the script. The inmates would then start a series of conversations in the voices of their characters, which we recorded. One man, in particular, who was my age and who had developed a sort of brotherly relationship with me, was, to put it politely, driving us all crazy with his insidious little comments. The rest of the inmates were working hard on concretizing their script, and this one guy seemed to be having a tough time staying focused. He continued to interrupt everybody. Finally, in a moment of frustration, I blurted out to the group, "All in favor of making R-'s character a mute, say aye." Without hesitation, the entire group responded with one blissful "aye," hushing the voice of our good- humored and newly established mute. It was the humor of these men and women in the jail, and the sincerity we were able to share with one another, that made my experience so constructive and enjoyable.

The most enjoyable "classroom" in Ketchikan was in Lillian's bookstore. Lillian, the town matriarch, who has been living in Ketchikan for over forty years, lovingly took me into her bookstore one cold night. Sensing my loneliness as she flipped the "Closed" sign over, she told me to stay seated and poured me a cup of coffee. We ended up talking for two hours, and thus began a relationship that will always stay close to my heart. If the world were filled with more Lillians, we wouldn't need the sun.

I can't say enough good things about the people of Ketchikan. I guess that gratitude is the recurring theory of my experience with these people. My role as a VISTA Volunteer was more a symbol than anything else. Sure, I did a few things while I was there and gained valuable experiences. But what it really felt like to me was that the community saw someone who expressed an interest as well as some basic needs; thus, they responded by working together to help me meet my needs. Most importantly, I wasn't the only person they helped. They helped each other. They continue to help each other. We are all volunteers. The more we give of ourselves, the more we receive.

The people of Ketchikan taught me that we need each other; that, in truth, there is an interconnectedness that we, as a society, are afraid to explore. An inmate knows a fisherman who knows the bookstore owner who knows the missionary who knows the radio reporter who knows Linda who knows Mary (who makes the best mint-chocolate-chocolate-chip cookies in the world). we are all somehow connected. And when I regretfully left that small island that nestles in an Arctic rain forest, I took with me a new level of gratitude for the human spirit. One might think I would appreciate my country more, but what I really appreciate is my fellow human, whether she be a Polish student, an inmate, or a newlywed. I took with me the understanding that by reaching out to people arid breathing an air of humility, I will be okay.

I don't have a lot of positive words for the way VISTA handles the housing for its volunteers. Homelessness is a more appropriate word. Although the search for housing made me more resourceful, I believe the energy I and all VISTA volunteers had to put into finding a place to live would and could be expended more productively in the assigned projects. It is one thing to live in poverty, but it is absurd to be expected to live in poverty, scurry about for housing, and work full time. That is not an experience, that is survival. However, the administrators in charge of recruiting and training the volunteers were more than helpful. During the three-day training in Seattle prior to the volunteers parting for their newly assigned projects, the VISTA staff shared with us their experiences as not only VISTA Volunteers, but also Peace Corps. Volunteers. They taught us resourceful ways to survive in our new jobs and displayed a level of honesty that can only be considered a rarity in the U.S. government. The idealism, compassion, and respect they have for the people of this country is admirable and pleasantly contagious. It is encouraging to see there are a few idealists employed by Uncle Sam who believe in the people of this country.

A true test came when I moved to the big city: Albuquerque, New Mexico. With the tools given to me by the people of Ketchikan, I was able to build my foundation. I gained a sense of community by reaching out to people. I expected less of a positive response simply because I was now in the city, not a small town. Instead, by walking into the local women's book store, talking to the employees, reading the bulletin boards, volunteering in the local jail, joining a softball team, and, most importantly, reaching out and sharing the truth of myself with people I did not know, I found my place in my community. I found people who need me as much as I need them.

The good souls of Ketchikan taught me, the teacher. Gratefully, I continue to learn.