tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-64517215494673058632024-03-13T10:15:07.285-05:00HEAR!TSIDEA view of Grand Rapids from 144 South DivisionAnna Gzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16490083395567100968noreply@blogger.comBlogger77125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6451721549467305863.post-26769232861582290442011-09-07T12:19:00.000-05:002011-09-07T12:19:10.804-05:00Honestly.15 minutes of honest conversation; the rest of the world ceases to exist. <br />
<br />
We debate whether birthdays are worth celebrating. I ask him to name all of the drugs he's ever done, and the best one (alcohol) and the worst one (alcohol). I tell him I've never actually been drunk before, but I've pretended a few times. He tells me he's an awful father. I tell him I have a sugar addiction. He tells me about the times that he's dressed up in nice suits and hid behind the vending machine at a ritzy hotel, just so he can come down the next morning and eat from the free buffet. We talk about depression, religion, appearance, fairness, my fingernails ("What's wrong with my fingernails?!"), and ghost stories. <br />
<br />
"Are you mad at me, because I don't care about birthdays?" He asks. <br />
<br />
Today, in this office, souls are bared. <br />
Anna Gzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16490083395567100968noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6451721549467305863.post-35722365804131525252011-05-18T13:19:00.001-05:002011-05-20T07:17:22.220-05:00The People That You FollowIt is not uncommon for me to receive letters from prison. On a pretty regular basis, inmates waiting release send requests for information about our agency's services in order to create a constructive plan for their reentry into society. I always respond. I love letters, and even though these are purely of a business nature, I always add a sentence or two conveying a message of encouragement, and of hope. <br />
<br />
A few weeks ago, I received one such letter, though it was unique: Michael Layton had no release date. He is in prison for 'life'. He told me that he has been petitioning for release, and that it's helpful to present a plan during these petitions that shows his efforts to be a contructive citizen if he is ever granted release. He was hoping our services would be part of that plan. I informed him, gladly, stunned by the thought that Mr. Layton had been in the same building since I was born. As usual, I added a concluding paragraph in which I told Mr. Layton of my respect for his efforts and his persistence. <br />
<br />
And then he wrote back:<br />
<br />
"I just wanted to let you know that for number one just you responding made my day and number two I appreciate the letter and the information also. Thank you for reading and responding to me because for a minute i was beginning to feel dead inside. Also, thank you for choosing to care. There are men in the Bible that has done things that were morally wrong yet God used them to do great things. For some reason some people don't know this or they do and they still don't believe people can change. You hosever are not of the world and I wouldn't be surprised if you had enemies just from letting your light shine. <br />
I sent you a poem that I wrote whil reflecting on my past. I don't know if you could find any use to this but I wanted to share something with you. <br />
Peace, Michael"<br />
<br />
He gave me permission to post his poem:<br />
<br />
<strong>"The People That You Follow"</strong><br />
<br />
The people that I followed were not out for my best interest<br />
But at that time "<u>I thought they were friends</u>" so I listened<br />
To "<u>whatever they said</u>" and I did what "<u>they wanted</u>"<br />
Even when it came to doing wrong I was on it. <br />
<br />
<br />
But my concience told me, "<u>I should have left them</u>"<br />
"B<u>ut I ignored it cause I was trying to impress them</u>"<br />
"<u>Cause I wanted to fit in and be accepted by them</u>"<br />
"<u>So I began to prove myself worthy in the eyes of them</u>."<br />
<br />
<br />
So they started small with like, we dare<br />
You to jump over such and such fence and steal the pears<br />
I went from that to stealing out of corner stores<br />
And gocery stores then that gor bored so I began to do more.<br />
<br />
<br />
Because <u>my appetite for doing wrong grew quick</u><br />
<u>So by the time I became a teenager I was addicted</u><br />
<u>To being just like "the guys"</u> even though inside I cried<br />
Cause to be honest <u>I wasn't that type of guy.</u><br />
<br />
<br />
I was wearing a mast I don't know what else to tell you<br />
<u>Scared to take it off cause I didn't want to be a failure</u><br />
<u>So I wore this image that was far from who I was</u><br />
<u>And eventually that image had me involved with drugs.</u><br />
<br />
<br />
I fell for "<u>anything</u>" because I didn't have integrity<br />
My will to choose was compromised incessantly<br />
And in the end I was in a bad position, "in prison"<br />
<u>And the people that I followed lost interest.</u><br />
<br />
<br />
I wish you the best, Mr. Layton, wherever you may ever be.Anna Gzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16490083395567100968noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6451721549467305863.post-48159284427911997782011-05-11T09:16:00.000-05:002011-05-11T09:16:54.658-05:00__________________________________________.I stood, and focused all of my attention on Cassandra. I tried to soak in the volume of her joy, every animated detail of her face as she spoke to me, and her Jesus. I wanted to memorize the moment, to really remember the fullness of human change and movement. <br />
<br />
I wanted to remember the words she chose to describe the last few years of her life. She talked about the "chains" of her years of streetlife, the "heavy" boredom of days upon days in the same doorway, the "itch" for another high. She let her 5 ft frame (and 1 ft weave) rise and fall in her recollection, and her her arms wind through her reminiscence. Her eyes widened, her scarlet-red shirt and her shirt-red lipstick portrayed and punctuated her elation.<br />
<br />
But it was simple. And most of her explanation was a prayer. She was not speaking to me, but allowing me to eavesdrop on her praise. Because she had her own apartment, and she could sit and soak in her own tub, and even though most of the rooms were empty, her boundless presence filled them for now, and filled them well.<br />
<br />
I can't capture all of Cassandra in this moment the way I would like to, and I'm thinking about this as she speaks. I think about the privalege it is to stand so close to the joy of someone else, and to invite it in. I write this blog to pass on what I'm given, but I'm afraid that today, my words are not sufficient.Anna Gzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16490083395567100968noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6451721549467305863.post-87478503973745310822011-04-21T09:32:00.000-05:002011-04-21T09:32:32.477-05:00Bora Bora... at the end of our meeting, I asked him: <br />
"Is there anything else I can help you with today?"<br />
<br />
He blinked very slowly, looked up, and then looked straight into my eyes.<br />
"Yes. I want to go to Bora Bora."<br />
<br />
"Close your eyes again," I told him. <br />
<br />
I have an abnormally big and bright computer monitor. I'm an expert at Google Image searching.<br />
<br />
I moved the monitor as close to his bowed, furrowed brow as the cord allowed, hoping I wasn't about to cause some irreparable retina damage. I filled the screen with the aquamarine of Bora Bora.<br />
<br />
"Okay."<br />
<br />
As he opened his eyes, his entire face lifted. His lips parted to show some very well-kept dentures, and he let out a slow, enduring, overwhelming laugh--the laugh of a man who had lived for so long without permanence, so many days without a companion, a lifetime without a vacation. <br />
<br />
In .13 seconds, a search engine found the joy that was buried deep within this old man, and it filled the room.Anna Gzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16490083395567100968noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6451721549467305863.post-42666607490634642602011-04-20T10:32:00.000-05:002011-04-21T09:33:05.103-05:00Holy Roller / Twisted Sister<div>Paula told me that she needs a payee because of her compulsive compassion. </div><br />
<div>"I'm addicted to random acts of kindness... with money."</div><br />
<div>She says that when people ask her for money, she just can't turn them down. It's too much fun to give away.</div><br />
<div>"I can give away $2,000... just like that." (She snaps her fingers, her weathered and worn fingers. It's less of a snap, more like a brush.)</div><br />
<br />
<div>Paula lives in the neighborhood, modestly. Very modestly. </div><br />
"God doesn't give me enough gifts to share."<br />
<br />
<br />
<div></div>Her joy is so complete, and so completely immaterialistic.<br />
<br />
"A $50 tip for a cab ride! You should have seen his face!"<br />
<br />
But Paula, make sure you take care of yourself.<br />
<div><br />
"What do you call a nun who falls down the stairs?"</div><br />
"A... holy roller?"<br />
<br />
"A twisted sister!"<br />
<br />
She pulls out an envelope of $20's and counts them. And re-counts them.<br />
<br />
"Paula, you should keep your money in your wallet."<br />
<br />
"But I like to play with it!"<br />
<br />
-<br />
<br />
"Can you do me a favor? Call me a cab."<br />
<div>"Uh... seeya later, Cab."</div><div>"No, I'm serious!"<br />
<br />
-<br />
<br />
I can't help but think that Paula will probably be okay, by her own standards. She will always feel like she is doing okay. It's a strange thought, to think that she receives money from the government to help meet her basic needs, and she give so much of it away. I wonder, if anyone knew, if they would complain. </div>Anna Gzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16490083395567100968noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6451721549467305863.post-78403555098194209822011-04-18T06:53:00.004-05:002011-04-20T07:13:02.401-05:00The Winds : The Times : The Pace : Nickles, Dimes and Pennies<div>Change.</div><br />
<div></div><br />
<div>Paul never took a shower because he never got another change of clothes. I have not seen him for months.</div><br />
<div><a href="http://144southdivision.blogspot.com/2009/12/so-it-goes.html">Gary</a> still smokes crack, but has learned not to overdose on our property (lest he be suspended from our services again).</div><br />
<div>I am sure <a href="http://144southdivision.blogspot.com/2009/05/no-room-at-grand-rapids-inn.html">Rita's</a> child <a href="http://144southdivision.blogspot.com/2009/05/no-room-at-grand-rapids-inn.html"></a>has been born, and I pray that they are safe. May 12th was the last time I saw her... but not the last time I thought about her.</div><br />
<div><a href="http://144southdivision.blogspot.com/2009/05/of-course.html">Rob</a> <a href="http://144southdivision.blogspot.com/2009/05/of-course.html"></a>doesn't pay child support for his son anymore, which has caused his greif to switch from his debt to his son's death.<br />
<br />
</div><div><a href="http://144southdivision.blogspot.com/2009/05/six-dollar-trust.html">BobbyJoel's</a> <a href="http://144southdivision.blogspot.com/2009/05/six-dollar-trust.html"></a>police report successfully secured him a spot in the subsidized apartments he applied to. I hear a rumor that he has a really cool toaster oven that can cook frozen pizzas. </div><div></div><br />
<div><a href="http://144southdivision.blogspot.com/2009/06/yalls-good-people.html">Jarrone and Christina</a> <a href="http://144southdivision.blogspot.com/2009/06/yalls-good-people.html"></a>are still together in a "agree to disagree" sort of way, but neither of them have their State ID's anymore.</div><br />
<a href="http://144southdivision.blogspot.com/2009/12/anyone-can.html">Gerald</a> <a href="http://144southdivision.blogspot.com/2009/12/anyone-can.html"></a>came back to my office this week with another gift: a daffodil he uprooted from a nearby highway median. He handed it to me with a shaking hand and said "I'm sorry." Sorry because after almost 2 years of sobriety, he was drunk. <br />
<br />
<div><a href="http://144southdivision.blogspot.com/2009/07/paulie-got-so-drunk-last-week-he.html">Paulie</a> still drinks as much as he pleases, but has stopped looking for work and stopped pretending to go to school. Never stops smiling.</div><br />
<div></div><br />
In this neighborhood, things change, and then sometimes, they change back. But they're always moving, and three years of employment in one place shows you much more than a month, or a year. I've seen the full run of a relationships, what happens after a stint in jail (and what doesn't), sobriety and relapse, and if I've learned anything, it's that change is a constant state, not a single event, but this doesn't mean that it doesn't count, or it's not effective. It's like the turn of a screw--you may look like you're at the same point as you were a year ago, but you're just a little bit deeper; a little bit closer to your destination. <br />
Relapse is part of recovery; sometimes you have to step backward to maintain your balance. <br />
<br />
Change.Anna Gzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16490083395567100968noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6451721549467305863.post-27443513391121117992011-03-14T14:29:00.001-05:002011-03-24T10:00:38.576-05:00BartoloI once made a point to write down all of the names of those in this neighborhood who passed away. Whether it was acts of violence, addiction, illness, cold, or natural causes, something deep within me feels the injustice of a death without recognition, without any kind of pause, thought, silence. <br />
<br />
Ten minutes ago, I received a phone call from the hospital from a nurse, looking for Bartolo's next of kin. He had named me as his emergency contact. Me, the person who made him laugh with broken Spanish, who liked to pluck off his hat to show his lack of hair, who would occasionally stop next to the nest of blankets that enveloped him in his Doorway (<a href="http://144southdivision.blogspot.com/2009/12/door-way.html">http://144southdivision.blogspot.com/2009/12/door-way.html</a>), who called him 'sir', and called him a friend, but couldn't go much further than that. I knew nothing of his next of kin. <br />
<br />
But I knew of his laugh, his kindness, his deep and beautiful wrinkled face. And just for now, for this moment, I'm thinking of him.Anna Gzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16490083395567100968noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6451721549467305863.post-47929834992795893202011-02-09T09:22:00.000-06:002011-02-09T09:22:22.544-06:00Why We Need PlacesI visited a home yesterday, which is not something I do very often while working with a predominately homeless population.<br />
<br />
I have known Vincent for a few years now--long enough to watch him transition from frequent nights spent in a parking garage, through the application for disability benefits, all the way to the receipt of his own apartment. I have watched one further transition as well: self-sufficiency to dependency; mobility to immobility. This was the reason I was visiting Vincent today: to deliver to him his food pantry staples.<br />
<br />
5 pounds of oatmeal <br />
A package of salt-free rice cakes<br />
3 rolls of toilet paper<br />
A loaf of bread<br />
Gatorade<br />
Green Tea<br />
<br />
With all of his bland, flavorless food requests, I was not expecting to open his apartment door to such a colorful, stimulating studio.<br />
<br />
The walls were full of drawings, gifts from other people, fliers and dried flowers, strange sculptures. Plants (and consequently, dirt) littered the floor, next to stacks of books, and palates of paint. It was truly a 'studio apartment'. <br />
<br />
Seeing Vincent in all his glory made me consider the further purposes of having our own housing. We desire to be in all our glory, whatever that means. <br />
<br />
Some people fill their places with art and color, like Vincent.<br />
Some people fill their places with people. <br />
Some people want to be surrounded by order,<br />
Or memories<br />
Or collections (anyone who has seen my closet knows all about this). <br />
<br />
Some people want their places uncluttered, simple, almost bare.<br />
<br />
But most people want to decide for themselves. To extend themselves into wherever they are the most. <br />
<br />
Vincent now seems himself, when he's in his place, throwing his being all over the floor and the shelves and the walls.Anna Gzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16490083395567100968noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6451721549467305863.post-21746679331953669282011-02-03T06:47:00.000-06:002011-02-03T06:47:55.531-06:00Life Snows OnYesterday, it was cold, and it snowed. According to Carrie, this was nothing new. <br />
<br />
"It's always a cold day. It's always snowing. Ain't no different. Ain't no adventure. When everything's closing, when everyone's all hunkering down, we still ain't got no place to go."<br />
<br />
I admit to feeling the excitement and thrill of anticipating a historical storm. I admit to thinking of my morning commute as an adventure. And though Carrie's view may seem cynical, who wouldn't be cynical? Who wouldn't be annoyed by all of the hubbub of the homeowners when so little changes for those without housing. <br />
<br />
The news called and asked if our numbers had increased because of the storm. The truth is, they remained typical for this time of the month. Though the snowfall intensified, the need was already critical; the visitation already intense. <br />
<br />
Carrie was already wearing everything she had. She'd been bundled up since November. She was planning on that. What she was not counting on was all of the services and agencies that were closed. It was a hard day to get any business done. <br />
<br />
"Anna, there's goin' be snow and cold 'til spring. And you can always count on that."Anna Gzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16490083395567100968noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6451721549467305863.post-43064846408909146402011-01-26T19:37:00.001-06:002011-01-26T19:38:22.863-06:00BareHe's been telling me for a year now that I care about him more than he does. I have to admit, now, that it's true. That is why, this afternoon, I changed his socks. <br />
<br />
Taking a shower today (and any day) is a big deal. Going from being dry and clothed to being wet and bare is a drastic change, and it's hard to handle. It takes a willingness to be vulnerable, to be alone, to confront yourself. Sometimes, it's a painful process, but it's what we do. It's what we all have to do in this world, once in a while. So he did it today, but he couldn't take off his socks. <br />
<br />
He walked from the shower, soaking his footprints into the carpet on the way to my office. He has been wearing those three pairs of socks for three months. <br />
<br />
"These socks are just fine."<br />
<br />
"They're wet. They're going to freeze when you go outside."<br />
<br />
"I've been doing it this way all along."<br />
<br />
"You'll get frostbite."<br />
<br />
"If I take off my socks, my feet will fall apart."<br />
<br />
"No, your feet will fall apart if you <i>don't <i></i></i>take off your socks."<br />
<br />
"I'm not changing them."<br />
<br />
And now, because he fears the change of his socks more than he fears frostbite, and resists exposing his feet more than my disapproval, he embarks on a valiant attempt at a filibuster, going on and on about something totally unrelated. And I wait. And I wait. <br />
<br />
And he pauses, thinking.<br />
<br />
"Just tell me when it's my turn."<br />
<br />
And he continues. And I wait. <br />
And now he stops.<br />
<br />
And I hold up three pairs of new, thick, black socks. And I say,<br />
"Dean, are you going to do this, or am I?"<br />
<br />
He starts to talk again, and chews relentlessly on a handful of cough drops, because he can't bear to acknowledge what he is about to expose. But he moves back in his chair, and lifts his feet. <br />
<br />
And one by one, I peel off his tattered, soaking, salt-stained socks.Anna Gzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16490083395567100968noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6451721549467305863.post-21491890136207441082011-01-19T07:10:00.000-06:002011-01-19T07:10:25.799-06:00And Sew On: The luxury, the importance, and the impact of more time.I do not have a set schedule or time limit for the visits I have during the day. The amount of time I spend with each individual depends on the needs they present. I have the luxury of determining how I spend the six hours that my office is open for business, and though I am held closely accountable by my co-workers (and those still waiting outside of my door), I see the value in taking extra time from time to time to do some unique activities. Like sewing. <br />
<br />
Miss Nettie came in because she needed new boots, because the fabric on hers had ripped up the side. We have very few winter boots available to give out, so I decided it was time to take out the sewing kit. Yes, of course I keep a sewing kit in my office. <br />
<br />
Miss Nettie and I each took a needle, some thread, and a boot, and got to work. She had not sewn in years. We talked about all of those non-sewing years, all of the threadless thoughts that occupied her mind. We talked about those boots, their strengths and weaknesses, how they traveled with her through the highs and lows of her days. We brough the seams together with only minor injuries (nothing two band-aids couldn't fix), and Miss Nettie walked away with some pride in those boots, and some more energy in her step. <br />
<br />
Not everyone is lucky enough to have 10 minutes to take with Miss Nettie, but I stand by those 10 minutes, and I'll defend them to my co-workers, and those still waiting outside my door.Anna Gzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16490083395567100968noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6451721549467305863.post-27118027488221027232011-01-12T11:15:00.001-06:002011-01-12T11:16:39.472-06:002 Vitamins, 2 Cough Drops, 2 Starlite PeppermintsWhen Jerry walks in, we lay them all in two lines: <br />
<br />
2 Vitamins, for preventative health<br />
2 Cough Drops, for sinus health<br />
2 Starlite Peppermints, for breath<br />
<br />
Capsule Capsule, Paper Wrapper Paper Wrapper, Cellophane Cellophane<br />
<br />
If there's anyone who needs vitamins, it's Jerry. He eats ketchup and tarter sauce. He eats really really thick hot chocolate. He eats nothing. He eats french fries mixed with really really thick hot chocolate. He eats nothing. He needs some minerals. Though he doesn't seem to get sick nearly as much as I do.<br />
<br />
If there's anyone who needs vitamins, it's me. I get what Jerry calls the Rhino Virus at least once a month, making me the second most prominent destroyer of Kleenex-producing trees in the Northern Hemisphere. I can't be bothered with vitamins. But Jerry called me a hypocrite, so we decided to keep each other accountable. We take our vitamins in unison, keeping eye contact to make sure neither of us cheats. <br />
<br />
It's so much easier to take vitamins with Jerry. There's this strange, other-dimensional connection made when we swallow One-A-Days in unison, like the feeling you get when you're pushing a car out of a snowbank with someone that you don't even know that well--when you are both working really hard toward something great. <br />
<br />
We've found common ground in our lack of motivation, and now, in our mineral-rich bloodstreams. <br />
<br />
Sometimes, Jerry stays to talk while we administer our cough drops and suffer through our breath medication, but today, Jerry takes them for the road. He's got business today, but knew he'd be worthless without his vitamins.Anna Gzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16490083395567100968noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6451721549467305863.post-52647305087917587902010-12-30T09:08:00.000-06:002010-12-30T09:08:20.138-06:00Mad WorldI have always been uncomfortable with anger. It's not an emotion that I often feel (except, historically and mysteriously, with both of my brothers). When things don't go the way I wanted, or when something dangerous is closely evaded, or when someone tricks me, or when I am denied something I desire, I feel disappointed, relieved, embarrassed, or frustrated. My reaction to these feelings is usually a strangely mis-fitting pleasant attitude, an even-keel calm, some distracting humor... but rarely anger. <br />
<br />
So, door slamming, raised voices, shaking fists and red faces were always frightful and foreign to me because I didn't understand them, and didn't know how to interpret them, accept them, or respond to them. This difficulty was amplified in my employment, where I had to sort through the meaning and motivation of being swore at, stormed out upon, and glared into the ground. I didn't take it personally, and wasn't hurt by it; if anything, I was baffled and amused. But my amusement was not constructive or helpful, so for the past 3 years, I have been observing and interpreting anger in order to react to it well, and respond to it helpfully. Today's observation brought a particularly helpful amount of understanding. <br />
<br />
Pamela was the first person in front of my office this morning at 8 AM, with 3 tired children and an apathetic boyfriend. She immediately stated her demands (none of which I could meet (at least right away)), and towed her crew into my office with a slammed door, a raised voice, a shaking fist, and a red face. I watched with a strangely mis-fitting pleasant attitude and even-keel calm (trying to suppress my humor reflex), as she yelled at me the injustice of my inadequacies. I could see pretty clearly that it was not the lack of a 30-day Bus Pass that was boiling inside of her, but the disappointment, the embarrassment, and the frustration of a mother who felt unable to take care of her kids; a woman who was being mentally abandoned by the man who was her greatest sense of comfort and support; the child of a mother who belittled her for her dependency, even if it was temporary. <br />
<br />
I began to understand that anger appears stronger than embarrassment or defeat. Anger is powerful, not vulnerable. <br />
<br />
Pamela is angry because her and her 3 kids are staying in an emergency shelter, and are shooed out during the day into the elements with no transportation. She's angry because she doesn't have anywhere to go. She's angry because her boyfriend is going to leave and go back to his mama's house in Benton Harbor. She's angry because she just wants to play with her kids, to take care of them, to be able to get what she needs, to be secure, to know what will happen tomorrow, and next week, and next month, and to be able to put down her bags in a place where they won't get stolen, and feel like her kids are safe even when she is not holding all of their hands, and cook the way she loves to, and relax her muscles, and slow her mind, but she can't. So when her boyfriend leads the kids back to the waiting room and closes the door behind him...<br />
... she lays her head on the desk and weeps.Anna Gzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16490083395567100968noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6451721549467305863.post-89426461421924948402010-12-23T07:42:00.001-06:002010-12-23T07:43:24.528-06:00A Thrill of HopeMario always reminds me that he is not an artist, he is an <i>artisan.</i> He is a 60-year-old cancer patient at St. Mary's who lives down the street from my office, and continually supplies it with new art for it's walls. Often, he will visit me to make long-distance calls to his family who own a flower shop on the other side of the state ("Our last name means 'Beautiful Flower' in Italian," he reminds me), and each time, he brings something shockingly original. <br />
<br />
Currently, I have a framed tissue paper collage, his pastel self-portrait (complete with a pair of real, lens-less glasses stuck onto the paper), a brick with crayon-wax-dipped sandwich skewers mimicking a bouquet, and a metallic Christmas "wreath" made from permanent marker-colored parts of a grill. The guy is astoundingly creative. <br />
<br />
For Christmas, I wanted to make him something. I have pretty limited artistic abilities, including some debatable photography and ability to knit without pattern with varied success. For Mario, I decided to transcribe the verse of a Christmas song, one that reminded me of him. On a small sheet of posterboard, I caligrified the following words:<br />
<br />
"A thrill of Hope!<br />
The weary world rejoices<br />
For yonder breaks a new and glorious morn!"<br />
<br />
Below it, I drew a simple sunrise. I laminated it, and waited for him to come in this week. <br />
<br />
When Mario arrived, he insisted on giving me a gift first. True to his name, he gave me a small clutch of dried flowers (to add to my collection of dried roses and lillies I have hanging by my desk, taken from who-knows-who's garden.) <br />
<br />
With hesitation, I gave him the gift I made him.<br />
"I'm no artisan," I said. <br />
He read it a few times, and through his tears said,<br />
<br />
"This may be the only Christmas gift I receive this year, but even if it wasn't, it would still be the best. I'm putting it on my wall as soon as I get home." <br />
<br />
The weary world rejoices.Anna Gzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16490083395567100968noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6451721549467305863.post-68743131404819231022010-12-15T06:40:00.000-06:002010-12-15T06:40:46.958-06:00Joann Gets a LifeOn the sign-in sheet outside of my office, people can sign up for assistance with whatever they want. There is a previous post on this blog about particularly creative and bizarre requests, but today I got a new one worth noting:<br />
<br />
Joann --- Needs a Life<br />
<br />
She was the last one on the list, and I only had 5 minutes before we close. I wanted to make it good, and against her expectations, take it seriously. <br />
<br />
"Sit down, Joann."<br />
<br />
I got out a piece of paper--she stared at me in amused disbelief, but her face was still overwhelmed with sad, hopeless boredom. <br />
<br />
"Number One: You need a hobby. What are your hobbies?"<br />
<br />
"I don't have a hobby! I'm homeless! I don't have any money!"<br />
<br />
"Hobbies don't have to cost money. Do you like to write?"<br />
<br />
"Yes, but my bag was stolen, and it had my paper in it."<br />
<br />
"Well, if this is going to be your hobby, you need a notebook, and you need a really nice pen." (I'm passionate about journaling with nice pens.) I found a notebook, a rockin pen, and put them both in a bag, on the desk between us. <br />
<br />
"Number Two: You need some people. Who are your people?"<br />
<br />
"Got no people."<br />
<br />
"Family in the area?"<br />
<br />
"Well.... I have three children."<br />
<br />
"Are you on speaking terms?"<br />
<br />
"Yes..."<br />
<br />
"Speak to them more often." (I noted this on the piece of paper next to '#2')<br />
"Number Three: Do you have a library card?"<br />
<br />
"Yes..."<br />
<br />
"Learn something new. Think about a new thing each day. Journal about it."<br />
I wrote this next to '#3', and handed Joann the bag. <br />
"There it is, Joann. That's a really good start."<br />
<br />
"But... I need that paper. My list."<br />
<br />
"Right!" I wrote JOANN'S LIFE at the top of it, and put it in her hand. She looked at me again, with a few layers of her hopeless boredom melting away, revealing just a little bit more of that amused disbelief. Then she walked out of my office.<br />
<br />
Our office just closed: Joann walks out with a life.Anna Gzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16490083395567100968noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6451721549467305863.post-60398242677952161862010-12-13T07:58:00.000-06:002010-12-13T07:58:39.742-06:00When the Door ClosesWhen she's in the open, when there's people swirling all around and so many sounds and conversations, then everything is as it always is, and nothing has to be different. There are enough distractions--enough reasons not to cry, or acknowlege the truth, or was it just a rumor she heard? When she's walking the streets, she thinks about how cold it is, about her fingers and toes, her watering eyes. Numb and numb.<br />
<br />
But when she comes into a private office, and when the door closes, then her sister is really dead. She's really gone. Her favorite one, the one who liked Law and Order, the one she fought with the most, and respected the most. She thinks about it now, feels it now, and is now allowed to show her tears (in a place where they won't be talked about, and they won't freeze to her face). <br />
<br />
Now, she knows that she had been looking for a room to enter, and a door to close--one that didn't contain a toilet. They're hard to come by in this neighborhood, but they're necessary, because everywhere else, the noise never stops, and her sister is somewhere, somewhere.Anna Gzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16490083395567100968noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6451721549467305863.post-66001014125846109102010-11-11T07:53:00.000-06:002010-11-11T07:53:15.980-06:00Love, God and Philosophy, by Joachim BajemaJoachim walked in and got right down to business. He whipped out a photo-copy of a cover of a book: Love, God and Philosophy by Joachim Bajema. <br />
“I’m Joachim Bajema, and I wrote this book.”<br />
I don’t know if he knew where he was or who he was talking to, but it seems like he did, and maybe it’s true, that philosophers can sense each other somewhere in their cheekbones. We talked some about Love (and so some about God by default), but mostly about philosophy, and his resume. He gave me three different addresses to put in his file: One in Switzerland, one in D.C., and one down the street, on the street. He came in every day, and we talked, and I asked about the strange, small silhouette of a dog on the cover of his book, and he dove into some crazy theory about the spirit of Love and God in Dogs (and yes, the lettering had something to do with it), and then left again. <br />
<br />
Later that week, the FBI arrived (they come frequent enough not to scare us; infrequent enough to still clear the place out) with a large, photocopy of Joachim’s grinning mug shot. <br />
<br />
“Have you seen this dangerous man?”<br />
<br />
Dangerous man. I had seen him, yesterday and the day before, and we were talking about Love doggone it. <br />
He had brutally murdered his father, his mother, his grandmother, the neighbor who tried to intervene, and the police officer who arrived later. They “WANTED” him. <br />
I told him that he was either in Switzerland, D.C., or down the street, on the street.<br />
<br />
Knowing I wouldn’t get to talk to him again, I tried to figure out how to get a hold of his book.Anna Gzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16490083395567100968noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6451721549467305863.post-35066777355710218252010-11-06T08:24:00.000-05:002010-11-06T08:24:19.224-05:00The First Snow with LaTasha Roe... and as we stood outside her new apartment--her nearly-empty, save a sleeping bag, new apartment--the first few flakes of snow drifted down, and around us. I have never seen her smile like that: her eyes so squinted (just like mine) showing both rows of teeth, the wrinkles around her eyes delighting in the chance to bear witness to the occasion. Because this time, this winter, as the snow continued to fall and accumulate, LaTasha could go inside whenever she wanted, to a place that was hers, where no one could tell her to move along. <br />
<br />
Knowing that this was now true, that everything had changed, we chose to stand outside just a little longer to watch the snow, pausing to look at each other with memories of the last 2 years of her struggle in both of our eyes.<br />
<br />
There was nothing for me to say to her, in all of the holiness of that moment. But LaTasha never lacked words:<br />
<br />
"Damn, girl! I forgot how cold this shit is!"Anna Gzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16490083395567100968noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6451721549467305863.post-9861579100771333012010-05-05T10:04:00.005-05:002010-05-21T09:41:21.894-05:00A Year, HereMy goal was to write this blog, at least semi-consistently, for a full year. The year has ended, and for now, I am content with leaving it here as it is: a free-standing record of the colors and sounds and troubles and joys of a year, here, on South Division. I hope that you, whomever you are, have enjoyed reading it.<br /><br />And for anyone who wonders, the current score is Anna: 12, Mr. Robertson: 4.<br />(But that one wasn't even a math problem. It was a picture he drew.)Anna Gzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16490083395567100968noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6451721549467305863.post-85658538027409019272010-04-08T13:43:00.003-05:002010-04-08T13:53:18.908-05:00Free ParkingRecently, the city of Grand Rapids decided that Cherry St. needed to be straightened out. Before, it would be interrupted by our building; Cherry St. ran straight east into 144 South Division, and then continued next to it. It was a bit of a traffic mess, so construction workers re-designed the street so it curved southward before it hit Division, making it possible to continue straight ahead, next to our building. The southward curve cut out a bit of the parking available on the southwest corner of Division and Cherry, so I assumed that the space created on the other side would be used for parking. But instead, it was made into a park:<br />Two intersecting multi-leveled circles of benches and bricks and shrubs, crowned by a bus stop. It's beautiful! And all winter, it was left empty, because it was cold, and because there were rumors that the police installed cameras and microphones, somehow, in the bricks. But the sun and 60 degree weather pushed out the paranoia, and recently, the park has been packed.<br />Now, I overheard someone say,<br />"It makes me so mad that they are filling up that beautiful park!" And I could not help but say,<br />"Why? it's a park! It was made for them!"<br />"For homeless people?"<br />"For people."<br />Most of their day is spent being kicked out of places because they aren't theirs. Finally, here is a space in the neighborhood that isn't pre-owned. A no man's land is the closest thing some of them have to a home. So why would that make someone uncomfortable? That "they" are using this park?<br />Maybe because you relize that you can't claim it, own it, or make them leave. Maybe becaue you are getting a little taste of what "they" always feel--that it's not yours, and you're not exactly invited, but I suppose you can come.Anna Gzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16490083395567100968noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6451721549467305863.post-57121235852220920732010-04-07T06:42:00.003-05:002010-04-07T06:55:23.616-05:00Doing The Math, with Robert RobertsonYou know, I have a calculator, right in the "Start" menu of my computer desktop. So I'm the go-to person for calcualation... of monthly benefit amounts and subsidized housing percentages and how-much-do-I-owe-that-guys. I've got that stuff down. So when Mr. (he has this beautiful Latin American name, but he refers to himself as) Robert Robertson came in with a math problem, I whipped out my Windows Caluclator. Bring it on, Mr. Robertson.<br /><br />He gave me something really complex; something that didn't seem to have anything to do with rent or debt or bottle deposits... and when I finally finished it, he just looked up, looked down, looked up again, and said: "Good Job." Not, "That's what I thought," or "Oh, that's not good," or "I can handle that," but "Good Job." He was quizzing me. "No calculator next time."<br /><br />It took me until my fourth math problem (I would get them about twice a week, when I didn't appear to be busy) to realize that Mr. Robertson did all of these problems in his head, and graded me based upon his own mental calculation. Some of them, I would spend a brain-bending 15 minutes on, giving him back a scrap of paper full of scribbles with an answer circled. He would look at my work for a while, and then give me his oral review.<br />"Good Job."<br />"Oooooh veeery good job."<br />"No! You make way too hard! So easy! Look different!"<br />The last one was factoring a quadratic function. Where does he get this stuff?<br /><br />So we're keeping score now, and it's currently<br />Anna: 7<br />Mr. Robertson: 3<br /><br />But he's stepping it up, now. I think he's going to even out the score. Behind that greying matted hatted hair and stretched-out Florida t-shirt, there is quite a mind. We'll see if this college grad can keep up.Anna Gzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16490083395567100968noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6451721549467305863.post-37149816013033624952010-03-31T06:33:00.003-05:002010-03-31T06:59:27.857-05:00My Old ManI have always called him "Tricky Dick" because of the time I caught him stealing my dry erase marker and he claimed that it, in fact, did belong to him, but that he would give it to me as a gift. Everyone else simply called him "The Old Man". Once in a while, I would call him "My Old Man"; his usual streetname with a posessive paternal spin. I love him.<br /><br />I saw him in my office. We talked about his favorite Biblical passages and his favorite sacreligious interpretations of them. We called his siblings who lived in far away cities and looked up pictures of their hometowns on Google Images so he could imagine where they were. We talked about how the police always picked on him because he was missing a few toes from the war and consequently always walked like he was drunk, and then the irony of the fact that he really was always drunk.<br /><br />I saw him outside of my office. He liked to use this old broomstick to hit on fenceposts and to pretend to cut down trees. He was really going at it on a sapling in front of the bank, so I sat him down and gave him some iced tea and told him to give the trees a rest for the sake of preserving the earth for my future offspring.<br /><br />Someone left a message for him on our universal message line that his brother had died. I was nominated to take the old man into my office and tell him, because we realized he had no one else here to tell him. We talked about his brother, we called his sister, and called his sister again. We looked up pictures of where his brother used to live, so he could imagine where his brother's body would rest.<br /><br />And then Tricky Dick didn't come back for a long time. I thought about him, and about him thinking about his brother. I thought of him pretending to cut down trees somewhere as an attempt to ease his broken heart. I we were weeding out old mail one day, mail we would have to return to sender because it had not been claimed, and I found a letter sent to him by his sister. I kept it in my desk, in my top drawer, for months and months hoping that he would come back and that I could give it to him and that it would give him some hope. Yesterday, he did.<br /><br />As usual, there were a million things going on, and I was in the midst of placing mental bookmarks next to two other requests while I focused on a third... but when I saw him, the rest of the world blurred. I stared at his old and tattered and weathered and wrinkled face and shook my head.<br /><br />"There's my old man. I have something for you."<br /><br />I gave him the letter that had become the inner decor of my top drawer like it was some kind of certificate of merit. I held my hand on his shoulder for a minute, and felt like I was about to cry for relief or joy and grief for my old man's life, what I know of it and what will come of it.<br />He thanked me, and the moment passed, and the other demands flooded back in as Tricky Dick stumbled and tipped his way back out into the street.Anna Gzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16490083395567100968noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6451721549467305863.post-27564216330869286992010-03-05T06:55:00.003-06:002010-03-05T10:09:36.583-06:00Doctors, PatienceIt has been sunny this week, but not warm.<br /><br />I don't know where they came from, but people have started wearing medical facemasks (you know, blue paper, elastic) to keep their faces warm. There are quite a few of them right now wearing medical gear, not because they're sick and want to keep the germs in, and not because they're healthy and want to keep the germs out, just because they're cold. But I've never seen something look so out of place.<br /><br />I didn't like it for a while, because I thought that people looking at them would think that the masqueraders behind them were diseased--people who already view the Heartside population as defiled and infected. I can't stand this, and don't want any visual reminder to stimulate it.<br /><br />But then I asked Dave why he was wearing one.<br />"I've got this until something better comes along," he said, "I'm just waiting on it."<br /><br />And then I relized who else wears these masks: Doctors, surgeons, the world's definition of success and progress and respect. Something better.<br />When I see these masks now, I forget who is behind them, and who could be behind them. I think about the fact that something could be different. That one thing in the early life of this person could have caused them to wear this mask for a completely different reason, a different necessity.<br />(And something later in life could do the same.)<br />There is no division.<br />It's just a street name.Anna Gzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16490083395567100968noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6451721549467305863.post-7265434559968863862010-03-02T07:36:00.002-06:002010-03-02T08:10:16.155-06:006464 : People came through my office yesterday. That is the information that we will give to the board, the donors, report to the public.<br /><br />46: In the morning<br />18: In the afternoon<br /><br />32: Utilized the ID Program<br />32: Utilized the Referral Desk<br /><br />4: Needed transportation to get to an appointment<br />1: Needed transportation to get to employment<br />4: Needed Degage ID's to utilize neighborhood services<br />5: Needed housing assistance<br />4: Needed to search for local employment<br />2: Needed help filling out an application<br />3: Needed to make a long distance phone call<br />1: Needed furniture for a new apartment<br />2: Needed help filling prescriptions<br />23: Needed help attaining State Identification<br />9: Needed help attaining their Birth Certificate<br />12: Needed... something else<br /><br />: Gary had to call his friend in Muskegon, because he just had to get out of here. Just for a minute.<br />: Jackson has been suffering from gout for so long. Today one of his hands was completely swelled up, "But!" he exclaims, "It makes me look years younger! No wrinkles!"<br />: Nelson just started school, but has no way to get there every day.<br />: Austin could pay for an apartment if someone would overlook the fact that he was evicted from one once.<br />: Ralph just needs someone to vouch for him. Needs someone to say that he's been doing okay, that he's been treating people respectful. Needs to be respected.<br />: Mr. Sartini had his medical coverage cut off because he didn't mail something in time, and now his extensive nerve damage is killing him with pain unless he can find a place to get his prescription.<br />: Jack is sure that this resume, this employer, this is going to work.<br />: David can't figure out what to change his password to. It's always been "password", and he doesn't know if he can remember anything else.<br />: Tanisha is 56, and tired of sleeping on the floor.<br />: Tom's parents just won't anwer the phone. No matter what time of day, they just won't answer.<br />: Sarah's kids were taken away, but not for long. You can't separate a mom from her kids. "They said they didn't weigh enough. What's enough? I just don't have the money to fill them with food."<br />: Henry is going back to school, "but is it a problem if you have to help me fill out the application? Will that disqualify me?"<br />: Reggie just got out of prison and has no idea who he is or where he is or what comes next.<br /><br /><br />(Alyssa is liberated because she changed her last name, and now she doesn't have to think of her dad everytime she gives her signiture.)<br />(Shayla performed her pantomime act at a restaurant, and they loved it!)<br />(Demi is trying a new hair color.)<br />(Alex is not a failure.)Anna Gzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16490083395567100968noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6451721549467305863.post-19890706719927174342010-02-15T13:51:00.004-06:002010-02-15T14:21:23.244-06:00The Night ShiftI have had the pleasure and <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">privilege</span> of doing a few shifts in the overnight women's shelter in our building during the last few weeks. I had never been even remotely interested in working in the middle of the night before, but if I have to do it, I'm glad it's here.<br /><br />I have not been a fan of sleepovers ever since abstaining from them didn't result in losing all of your friends, so I had forgotten what the atmosphere is like, and didn't consider the fact that I would find it in a shelter for women in a state of homelessness. But as soon as I obediently interrupted the silent <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">darkness</span> with "Good morning, beautiful women. It's Anna. It's 6:00. Now <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_2" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">shield</span> your eyes", I was greeted with a whining mixture of "Why did you wake us up so early!?" and "Why did you wake us up so late?!" along with the beginning of the morning-after-slumber-party routine. A little more complaining, and a lot of hairstyling (and those who had taken their hair off the night before began to re-attach it before my widened eyes ("Awe, Anna! Didn't you know us black women borrow our hair??)) The group in the bathroom covered about a 40-year age span, but they could all do perfect imitations of the voice of Elmo (and those who couldn't shot them perfect looks of disgust). The pillows and blankets were put away while some traded socks and some exchanged pictures of their sons or boyfriends or themselves on their cell phone camera. There was the hurling of hairbrushes and undergarments and jokes--everything that makes waking-up-women feel like they're in a place they're supposed to be.<br /><br />And then, one by one, everyone left the homey, predictable, well-lit domain of estrogen to <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_3" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">descend</span> the stairs into the real world, where no one really knows what the day will hold (but they know it will be invaded by men). At this point, I noticed something: Every person who left the floor told me they were leaving, and said goodbye. I don't know if this is a rule, or a tradition, or if it's just because it's nice to tell someone you're leaving, and have them tell you they hope your day goes okay. Notifying someone that you won't be there anymore makes it feel like it's a place in which you belong, at least for now; a place where someone knows and cares that you are there, and no longer will be.<br /><br />I was the visitor that night, that morning: Warmly welcomed.Anna Gzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16490083395567100968noreply@blogger.com0