Emergency Contacts

In our office, we have a phone line that is connected to our staff, and also a phone line that is connected to an answering machine with the following message:

"This is an answering service that serves to take messages for many people. Please leave your name, the name of the person you wish to reach, your number, and a brief message, and it will be given to them."

Anyone can use this number to recieve messages from employers, doctor's offices or worried mothers if they do not have a phone of their own. We recieve a wide variety of messages on this line such as...

"Thanks for making me waste a mother f***ing 50 cents. I want to talk to a real f***ing person."

"Hi... um... this is Tasha... I was calling to let Grant Carrol know that he was a father."

"Anna Gretz this is your Grandma. I don't know if I called the right number for you but I was wondering if you would like to come over for dinner tonight."

and the message that we recieved yesterday: "Hello, this is Dave, and I'm calling on behalf of Derek Jordan... you might know him as 'R&B'. He was working for me today on some painting and he... well, he fell off the building. We were trying to contact someone, and this is the number he left for emergencies. Call me back if you can, my number is 5..."

My co-worker and I listened to the message about 5 times, asking other people for 2nd opinions, trying to get the number that Dave left to contact him. Of course we know R&B! And we were scared for his life. I tried at least half of the millions of possible combinations of seven numbers beginning with a 5 asking for Dave, but never got through. Our afternoon was ruined with visions of R&B in a coma (splattered with paint).

Later in the afternoon Derek R&B Jordan waltzed onto the floor, cleaned up (and clean shaven) with all his limbs and faculties intact (which is how he prefers it, thank you very much). There was an immediate spontaneous outburst of gratitude for his life, prompting confusion from R&B.

"What? What's the deal."
"R&B we thought you were dead!"
"I fell off a building."
"We know!"
"How'd you know?"
"Dave called!"
"Dave? Oh... he called you guys? That was real nice. Because you guys are all I've got. This is home base, you know? This is where my stuff's at. This is where my people's at. Who else would I call?"

(We suggested the staff phone number instead of the message line.)

Free

I have met people who believe in and live on the idea that everything that you need and want in life you can get for free... if you talk to the right people, if you jump through the right hoops, if you present the right argument. This concept is completely foreign to me.

When I first began doing referrals, I was presented with (to me) the strangest requests: Where can I get free tennis shoes? Can you get a free bike? I need some free furniture... clothing... cell phone... medical care... housing... groceries... TV. A free TV? Come on. You guys. You can't get free TV's. I've been here for a while, and if you could get TV's and cell phones for free, I would know.

But you can.

If you have a caseworker at the DHS, you can receive a referral for everything you need to fill your house for free.
If you don't currently have an income, you can get a card that allows you to get $200 a month for groceries for free.
You can get clothing for free.
You can get new Patagonia shoes for free.
You can get a cell phone for free, and minutes every month for free.
You can get a voucher that will pay your rent every month for free.
You can receive checks from the government every month for free.
Free....

But there things aren't really free--they are paid for by someone else. (Really? Yes.) And that bit of information is about as foreign to the population I work with than the "Economy of Free" is to me. These things don't just ... not cost anything. They are paid for, worked for, and Given. But to those who receive them, they are not Given, just Received.

This could be frustrating.
I have tried to explain this system to many of the people receiving assistance from my desk.
"This is not a piece of paper that waives the fee for your police report. This is a check for $6.00, made out the the Grand Rapids Police Department, paid for you by someone who doesn't even know you--they gave up $6.00 so you could have it... and have the opportunity to attain housing."

Or.

This could be the purest form of giving possible, going unrecognized.

When you give, you often Give-Because. You give because you want to know that you are making a different, because you want to make the world better, because you want to know others are happier and taken care of and still alive because of you. Because of you. You get this feeling, this wonderful feeling that you have done good. Now, I believe this is great--that this feeling is God-given and there is no guilt in wanting to desire it.
But what if you Just-Gave. You just gave money and time and resources because that's what people do, and you did not see or know or even consider the outcome. Or maybe you didn't even give, you just lived, and there was a small bit of money that was silently and subtly detracted from each of your paychecks--transformed into something that benefited someone else. You didn't get any satisfaction, and no one felt indebted.

Taxes?

Now, I'm not saying that this is always used in the best way possible, or even used responsibly, but it could be, and it sometimes is, and if we transformed this bitterness and submitted this to God, how would this look different?

Would we feel liberated?

Would we be free?

Mr. Wu and the Aura of Peace

I met Mr. Wu one month ago, and noticed first his hair. It was short, except for a long, more than a foot long, section in the middle of his back--the kind of section that most elderly asian men would braid, but Mr. Wu left it loose. When I met him, he bowed (lowering his stature from five feet to four), and smiled, and in a thick accent said, "Hello! You are Anna?"

Mr. Wu makes a phone call once a week to a bank somewhere that he believes has cheated him and refused to give him money that he has earned. I don't know the details, but I do know that Mr. Wu treats this banker (and each one that answers when he calls) with the utmost respect and courtesy. He sits at the phone, frustrated out of his socks, and utters "please"s and "thank you"s with his perfectly and calmly cadenced speech. Every time he gets off the phone, I ask him what happened. Each time he says "Not yet, Anna. Thank you Anna. Thank you very kindly, Anna."

I have seen him in the dining room every morning I have come in this month, and he greets me as if he has invited me over for dinner at his house. Everything within a foot radius of this man moves more slowly, sits contentedly, relaxes, at peace. Including me.

Two days ago, Mr. Wu walked softly up to me and asked to speak to me in my office. "Call to the bank?" I asked.

"No, Anna. I recieved a... you call it 'odd-job' today. And I wanted to donate this to you, to Degage, for the loving kindness I have been shown. For the time you allow me on the phone. Thank you. Thank you very kindly."

I know that they say you can buy abstract nouns... you know, happiness, courage, organizational skills... but my hope is that Mr. Wu's $20 bill will somehow bring someone peace.

Un-Popped Collars

I saw them again this morning on my way to work--we high-fived, actually.

Two guys, dressed as if they were on their way to a Hollywood movie premier: ironed black pants, button-up shirts, shined shoes, slick haircuts, complete with laptop-computer leather briefcases. They're all business. What business? It's none of mine... (they tell me).

I don't know where they get their clothes, but Darrell and Mr. Wilkerson are the best dressed men in town. Seeing them walk through the parkinglot across from Van Andel, the could have been en route from their Lexus to the Bridgewater building.

Darrell: Killer smile. New collared shirt every day--deep blue, crimson, gold. Walks like he has a million dollars in his pocket--not like he's weighed down by it or anything, but just that he knows it's there. He swaggers, he winks, and if he applied for a 9-5 minimum wage job, someone would probably think he'd be too overqualified (though I'm not sure he's applying).

Mr. Wilkerson: Looks like a 70's basketball player at a press conference. He's go the tamed 'fro, the over 6' stature, and a stride that lets him cover the basketball court in 10 steps. Skinny, healthy, and always matching--his pants, his shirt, his socks and shoes, and his swaggering partner.

I can't figure out what they do all day, but I have a feeling that after they take a shower and press their clothes outside my office, they just walk around town looking good. And why not? When you're used to being condescended, pitied, 'served', and sometimes avoided, it'd be nice to draw an attracted eye--to have someone look you up and down and say to themselves, those guys have it all together.

Whether or not they do is their business.

What Allison's Doing

Allison and Nathaniel have been together for a while now. She's told me a lot of funny stories about them getting caught making out in public--only one charge with indecent exposure, but you know when you're drinking, those are pretty good stats. All in good fun, all in good fun.

But Nathaniel drank so much last week, that when he tried to stand up, he stumbled onto some rocks and fell straight into the Grand River. Yes, kind of funny, would have been funny, but he had to go to the Emergency Room, and they ended up putting a plate in his ankle. They told him that if he tries to stand or walk on his ankle with this plate in it, he will sever vital nerves and muscle tissue, and his leg will have to be amputated. But when you have straight Medicaid and that's it, they don't give you much choice but to walk--they also sometimes forget to serve your meals or ask you if you're in pain. They pretend like you're not going through alcohol withdrawls, and when the DT's get really bad, they don't come around very much.

Allison goes to be with him everyday, and though it bothers her to see him going through the withdrawls, but she understands, because she's 2 1/3 days sober, too. Allison found out she was pregnant two and 1/3 days ago at the pregnancy resource center. She'd 45, but she's going to make sure this baby is okay, even if she doesn't know where it will live when it's born. Nathaniel says he'll marry her, that he'd do anything for her, but there's a lot that he can't do. She has the list--where you start calling when you're homeless expecting a child. It's a thick and tangled system, but after a good cry in the office, she feels more ready for it (If she drinks in the company of her old friends, she know they'll just offer her a drink, and she'll take it. She doesn't want to drink.)

And then, everything was okay, even though Nathaniel was still in the hospital and Allison was coming to terms with her pregnancy, but then someone stole her backpack (translation: someone stole her ID, all the clothing she owned, her shoes, the few letters and scripture passages she had collected).

That was too much.
But that was something I could change.

This morning, Allison took a shower, and armed with a new backpack, pair of shoes, pair of socks, t-shirts and personal hygiene products, walked back to Nathaniel's room to tell him that she was okay.

Clean

Latisha is finally clean.
She has been clean from crack for 6 months;
clean from lying for at least 2.

"When you's addicated, you don't care about nothin but that crack. It's all your damn brain can think about. You's going to say anything, do anything to get more. You even surprise yourself sometimes. You look at yourself, what you're doing, what all's comin out of your mouth, and you do you best to pretend it's not even you, because if if is, you's in big trouble. 'Cause to get crack, you'll say the craziest things, you don't even know how you came up with it.

You'd say you had a newborn baby and no diapers jus' so you could get some cash from some lovin' person who thinks babies is important and special.

You'd say you had no food or water or anything, and you probably don't, and then when you get a dolla or two, you still don't have no food, but you don't care--you know that dolla ain't goin to buy no sandwich and chips.

You'd say you's stranded and you're whole family's dyin of some aweful disease over in Georgia and you really just want to make it back for their funeral--and you hope maybe they'll give you even part of the money for the ticket so you can be high for a night.

You'd even say that your six kids all have this vision problem where they can't see shit, but they all's want to go to school and make somethin of the world, and won't you support our country's suffering youth so they can get some education? Won't you jus' give some money to get them some glasses?

Sometimes, I'd walk around with that cash in my pocket, and get halfway to an eyeglass place, lookin' for my six kids before I realized I made it all up. Crack makes you crazy, Anna. It makes you downright nuts, and if anyone deserves a crazy check* the most but needs one the least its people like me.

I'm tellin you this so you can see how good'a lies are out there. Somehow, Anna, you gotta see the lies and love the person anyway. But that don't mean you give them no money. That means you love them best by givin them a firm smack in the face.

Anna, maybe you shouldn't smack em in the face after all. I don't want you to get hurt or nothin. But I'm just sayin. I know what I'm talkin about. I tol' ya, I havn't lied for two months."

Reading Between the Lines

I have always been an advocate for reading.

Ever since my childhood, I have found such a sense of escape, fulfillment, relationship, and challenge from books. I often ask myself the question: If I were not here right now, if I did not have this or that obligation, what books would I read?

Because of this, I have been suprised at how often I observe people staring at the wall in our dining room (or staring at the statue in Veteran's park, or staring at the steps of the library) rather than reading a book. Of course, this has a lot to do with mental and emotional fatigue, illiteracy, personality types that are quite unlike my own, but I realized something today when I heard this comment (while filling out an application for disability):

"Mr. Vroon, what kind of things do you like to read?"

"What do I like to read? Oh man. The newspaper. Classical novels. Heck, I like to read street signs."

"Okay, the next question asks how often you spend time reading every day."

"Never."

"Never?"

"Girl, now if I had the GLASSES, man, that would go up 100%. But I don't. So, never."

Reading glasses. A man who loves to read never does it, because he doesn't have reading glasses. At first glance, this looks like laziness, like a lack of motivation or drive or energy. But after taking a closer look:


OBTAINING READING GLASSES (without transportation or income):

1. There is one store within walking distance of downtown that sells affordable reading glasses: Family Dollar
2. To get to Family Dollar, you have to walk 1/2 mile (about 10 minutes on average); difficult for you if you do not have adequate walking shoes, or you are not in very good physical health.
3. The reading glasses cost $6.00.
4. To get $6.00, you can...

a. Collect 600 bottles and cans.
b. Spend about 30 minutes asking people you know for money (resulting in possible altercations and strains on these relationships, especially when reading glasses are considered a luxury).
c. Spend about 1 hour asking people you don't know for money (risking insult, arrest, and enduring the a real and constant confrontation with the fact that you are poor).

But wait! There's another way! The Dollar Tree has reading glasses for $1.00!

1. To get $1.00, you can spend your afternoon collecting 10 bottles and cans, and then find a place where you can return them that doesn't give you store credit, but actual cash (I have not researched this piece yet).
2. The two nearest Dollar Trees are:

a. 1220 28th St, 4.1 miles away, approximately an hour and a half walk each way. Or
b. 1621 Leonard, 3.7 miles away, approximately an hour and 15 minutes walk each way.

3. If you cannot walk there and back (due to health, lack of footwear, or lack of sunlight in a day), you could take the bus. Bus tickets cost $1.50 each way. There are no places in the city that will give free bus tickets to run errands or go shopping. Which means...
4. You will have to get $3.00 more, making your reading glasses a $4.00 affiar. This will lengthen the time spend looking for cans, or panhandling (again, putting yourself at risk for arrest).

In summary, if you want the necessary tools to read, you are looking at extensive walking, weeks of can collecting, and the risk of arrest.

This is why Mr. Vroon doesn't read the newspaper.

Wrong Number

George and his wife were speaking with me about housing today, and our conversation lead to the infamous call to the Salvation Army Housing Assessment Program. George dialed the number, and his wife and I listened, confused, as George had the following conversation:

"Hello? What? Is this the.... what? No... I don't know. Really, I don't know. Okay. Um... thanks... 105.3? Yeah."

We asked him what happened:

"I had the wrong number. I called some radio station and they said I could win a vacation if I answered their question, but heck if I knew what they were talking about. So, can I call the Salvation Army now?"

We laughed for about 105.3 minutes.

15 Miles

"I had a good day yesterday. You know my friend Brad? Well, Brad and I got to borrow some bikes and ride out to Rockford on the trails. I'm telling you, it was so nice, and we made it all the way there. On the way back, Brad got a flat tire, so we had to walk for about 15 miles. But the way there, that was a special gift for me."

The Rights That Come With a Roof

Sam's always hated Ron. It's not that unusual; love and hate flow here like they do anywhere else (except people may be more vocal about it here). It was a bit innappropriate how often he would come up to our floor, swagger around with his black-santa-sack full of who-knows-what and talk about how much he hates Ron... but our ideas of what's normal and what's not have changed to the point of being very used to things like this. He was always willing to pause in his rant to greet me (Hey bay-be! I sho' do love ya, bay-be!)

Sam's mental illness has been escalating lately, though. Last time I walked past him on my way in and said "Good morning," he just looked at me, open-mouthed, wild-eyed, and threw his arms in the air as if answering that greeting was far too trivial a task for someone who had his thoughts racing through their brain. Sam's anger was now targeted towards anyone close enough to point a finger at (You kille' my whole family! I'm go burn down yo' house!)

It was soon after that Sam became a danger, not only to himself, but those around him. So many of the people I have met since working here have fallen victim to the twisted grip of mental illness, especially without many places that can assist in paying for psychotropic medication. Sam started attacking people with his fists instead of his usual bomb-threats, and lately, has hardly been discriminating whose jaw they hit.

This weekend, Sam lost it--he beat Joel (peaceful, pony-tailed Joel) until blood flowed from his face faster than obsenities flowed out of Sam's. Of course, we called the police in Joel's (and the rest of the public's) defense, and this was their response:

"I'm sorry, but if it's a homeless person on a homeless person, there's nothing we can do."

I've heard a lot of strange and baffling ideas of the rights of those who are currently without mortgages and rental agreements, but not one of us can make sense of this one. The best I could do was take Joel and his wife into my office today and apologize to him, telling him that we are paying attention, that we want the best of Sam and for him, and we know what happened, and we wish we weren't so powerless when it comes to making our sidewalk safe. Joel just smiled through his black and blue eyes, because he had just recieved word that one of the subsidized housing properties had a space for him and his wife.

"We're going to get a place, Anna. Then we'll be somebody."