Joachim 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.
“I’m Joachim Bajema, and I wrote this book.”
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.
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.
“Have you seen this dangerous man?”
Dangerous man. I had seen him, yesterday and the day before, and we were talking about Love doggone it.
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.
I told him that he was either in Switzerland, D.C., or down the street, on the street.
Knowing I wouldn’t get to talk to him again, I tried to figure out how to get a hold of his book.
11 November 2010
06 November 2010
The 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.
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.
There was nothing for me to say to her, in all of the holiness of that moment. But LaTasha never lacked words:
"Damn, girl! I forgot how cold this shit is!"
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.
There was nothing for me to say to her, in all of the holiness of that moment. But LaTasha never lacked words:
"Damn, girl! I forgot how cold this shit is!"
05 May 2010
A Year, Here
My 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.
And for anyone who wonders, the current score is Anna: 12, Mr. Robertson: 4.
(But that one wasn't even a math problem. It was a picture he drew.)
And for anyone who wonders, the current score is Anna: 12, Mr. Robertson: 4.
(But that one wasn't even a math problem. It was a picture he drew.)
08 April 2010
Free Parking
Recently, 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:
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.
Now, I overheard someone say,
"It makes me so mad that they are filling up that beautiful park!" And I could not help but say,
"Why? it's a park! It was made for them!"
"For homeless people?"
"For people."
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?
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.
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.
Now, I overheard someone say,
"It makes me so mad that they are filling up that beautiful park!" And I could not help but say,
"Why? it's a park! It was made for them!"
"For homeless people?"
"For people."
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?
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.
07 April 2010
Doing The Math, with Robert Robertson
You 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.
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."
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.
"Good Job."
"Oooooh veeery good job."
"No! You make way too hard! So easy! Look different!"
The last one was factoring a quadratic function. Where does he get this stuff?
So we're keeping score now, and it's currently
Anna: 7
Mr. Robertson: 3
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.
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."
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.
"Good Job."
"Oooooh veeery good job."
"No! You make way too hard! So easy! Look different!"
The last one was factoring a quadratic function. Where does he get this stuff?
So we're keeping score now, and it's currently
Anna: 7
Mr. Robertson: 3
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.
31 March 2010
My Old Man
I 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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
"There's my old man. I have something for you."
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
"There's my old man. I have something for you."
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.
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.
05 March 2010
Doctors, Patience
It has been sunny this week, but not warm.
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.
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.
But then I asked Dave why he was wearing one.
"I've got this until something better comes along," he said, "I'm just waiting on it."
And then I relized who else wears these masks: Doctors, surgeons, the world's definition of success and progress and respect. Something better.
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.
(And something later in life could do the same.)
There is no division.
It's just a street name.
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.
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.
But then I asked Dave why he was wearing one.
"I've got this until something better comes along," he said, "I'm just waiting on it."
And then I relized who else wears these masks: Doctors, surgeons, the world's definition of success and progress and respect. Something better.
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.
(And something later in life could do the same.)
There is no division.
It's just a street name.
02 March 2010
64
64 : People came through my office yesterday. That is the information that we will give to the board, the donors, report to the public.
46: In the morning
18: In the afternoon
32: Utilized the ID Program
32: Utilized the Referral Desk
4: Needed transportation to get to an appointment
1: Needed transportation to get to employment
4: Needed Degage ID's to utilize neighborhood services
5: Needed housing assistance
4: Needed to search for local employment
2: Needed help filling out an application
3: Needed to make a long distance phone call
1: Needed furniture for a new apartment
2: Needed help filling prescriptions
23: Needed help attaining State Identification
9: Needed help attaining their Birth Certificate
12: Needed... something else
: Gary had to call his friend in Muskegon, because he just had to get out of here. Just for a minute.
: 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!"
: Nelson just started school, but has no way to get there every day.
: Austin could pay for an apartment if someone would overlook the fact that he was evicted from one once.
: 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.
: 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.
: Jack is sure that this resume, this employer, this is going to work.
: 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.
: Tanisha is 56, and tired of sleeping on the floor.
: Tom's parents just won't anwer the phone. No matter what time of day, they just won't answer.
: 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."
: 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?"
: Reggie just got out of prison and has no idea who he is or where he is or what comes next.
(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.)
(Shayla performed her pantomime act at a restaurant, and they loved it!)
(Demi is trying a new hair color.)
(Alex is not a failure.)
46: In the morning
18: In the afternoon
32: Utilized the ID Program
32: Utilized the Referral Desk
4: Needed transportation to get to an appointment
1: Needed transportation to get to employment
4: Needed Degage ID's to utilize neighborhood services
5: Needed housing assistance
4: Needed to search for local employment
2: Needed help filling out an application
3: Needed to make a long distance phone call
1: Needed furniture for a new apartment
2: Needed help filling prescriptions
23: Needed help attaining State Identification
9: Needed help attaining their Birth Certificate
12: Needed... something else
: Gary had to call his friend in Muskegon, because he just had to get out of here. Just for a minute.
: 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!"
: Nelson just started school, but has no way to get there every day.
: Austin could pay for an apartment if someone would overlook the fact that he was evicted from one once.
: 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.
: 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.
: Jack is sure that this resume, this employer, this is going to work.
: 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.
: Tanisha is 56, and tired of sleeping on the floor.
: Tom's parents just won't anwer the phone. No matter what time of day, they just won't answer.
: 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."
: 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?"
: Reggie just got out of prison and has no idea who he is or where he is or what comes next.
(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.)
(Shayla performed her pantomime act at a restaurant, and they loved it!)
(Demi is trying a new hair color.)
(Alex is not a failure.)
15 February 2010
The Night Shift
I have had the pleasure and privilege 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.
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 darkness with "Good morning, beautiful women. It's Anna. It's 6:00. Now shield 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.
And then, one by one, everyone left the homey, predictable, well-lit domain of estrogen to descend 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.
I was the visitor that night, that morning: Warmly welcomed.
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 darkness with "Good morning, beautiful women. It's Anna. It's 6:00. Now shield 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.
And then, one by one, everyone left the homey, predictable, well-lit domain of estrogen to descend 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.
I was the visitor that night, that morning: Warmly welcomed.
10 February 2010
Why I Have a Business Card
I just checked my voicemail, and this was the only message:
"Anna, this is Papa John's Pizza over on... that place... ah... we got your order for an extra large pizza with um... 300 toppings. You have quite an appitite. We are all talking about it. All of our staff over here. But we wanted to tell you that you have to give the money to Mr. Fredrickson. Pay him for your really... huge pizza. I'm just kidding. It's Mr. Fredrickson. You know I love you. Trust in Jesus. He knows your heart. I love you. Bye."
I recently re-designed my business card, but I still had about 25 of the old ones left, so I waited to print the new ones. I waited about 3 months. I don't give my business card out very often. This is a "give me your word" kind of neighborhood, not a "give me more thin, small easy-to-lose items to keep track of" kind of place.
But some people will ask for my card, and some of those people really mean it. I think there's just something about having someone's number in your pocket... you have something tangible to show that you've got people, and those people have got your back. I've been asked to laminate my card on more than one occasion.
That's why I have business cards: so people who don't have a whole lot of names in their address book can put mine in their pocket, so they know they have something, they know they can call somewhere.
I would feel really bad if Mr. Fredrickson didn't have any phone numbers to prank call.
"Anna, this is Papa John's Pizza over on... that place... ah... we got your order for an extra large pizza with um... 300 toppings. You have quite an appitite. We are all talking about it. All of our staff over here. But we wanted to tell you that you have to give the money to Mr. Fredrickson. Pay him for your really... huge pizza. I'm just kidding. It's Mr. Fredrickson. You know I love you. Trust in Jesus. He knows your heart. I love you. Bye."
I recently re-designed my business card, but I still had about 25 of the old ones left, so I waited to print the new ones. I waited about 3 months. I don't give my business card out very often. This is a "give me your word" kind of neighborhood, not a "give me more thin, small easy-to-lose items to keep track of" kind of place.
But some people will ask for my card, and some of those people really mean it. I think there's just something about having someone's number in your pocket... you have something tangible to show that you've got people, and those people have got your back. I've been asked to laminate my card on more than one occasion.
That's why I have business cards: so people who don't have a whole lot of names in their address book can put mine in their pocket, so they know they have something, they know they can call somewhere.
I would feel really bad if Mr. Fredrickson didn't have any phone numbers to prank call.
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