Bora Bora

... at the end of our meeting, I asked him:
"Is there anything else I can help you with today?"

He blinked very slowly, looked up, and then looked straight into my eyes.
"Yes. I want to go to Bora Bora."

"Close your eyes again," I told him.

I have an abnormally big and bright computer monitor. I'm an expert at Google Image searching.

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.

"Okay."

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.

In .13 seconds, a search engine found the joy that was buried deep within this old man, and it filled the room.

Holy Roller / Twisted Sister

Paula told me that she needs a payee because of her compulsive compassion.

"I'm addicted to random acts of kindness... with money."

She says that when people ask her for money, she just can't turn them down. It's too much fun to give away.

"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.)

Paula lives in the neighborhood, modestly. Very modestly.

"God doesn't give me enough gifts to share."

Her joy is so complete, and so completely immaterialistic.

"A $50 tip for a cab ride! You should have seen his face!"

But Paula, make sure you take care of yourself.

"What do you call a nun who falls down the stairs?"

"A... holy roller?"

"A twisted sister!"

She pulls out an envelope of $20's and counts them. And re-counts them.

"Paula, you should keep your money in your wallet."

"But I like to play with it!"

-

"Can you do me a favor? Call me a cab."

"Uh... seeya later, Cab."

"No, I'm serious!"

-

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.

The Winds : The Times : The Pace : Nickles, Dimes and Pennies

Change.

Paul never took a shower because he never got another change of clothes. I have not seen him for months.

Gary still smokes crack, but has learned not to overdose on our property (lest he be suspended from our services again).

I am sure Rita's child 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.

Rob doesn't pay child support for his son anymore, which has caused his greif to switch from his debt to his son's death.

BobbyJoel's 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.

Jarrone and Christina are still together in a "agree to disagree" sort of way, but neither of them have their State ID's anymore.

Gerald 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.

Paulie still drinks as much as he pleases, but has stopped looking for work and stopped pretending to go to school. Never stops smiling.

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.
Relapse is part of recovery; sometimes you have to step backward to maintain your balance.

Change.

Bartolo

I 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.

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 (http://144southdivision.blogspot.com/2009/12/door-way.html), 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.

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.

Why We Need Places

I visited a home yesterday, which is not something I do very often while working with a predominately homeless population.

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.

5 pounds of oatmeal
A package of salt-free rice cakes
3 rolls of toilet paper
A loaf of bread
Gatorade
Green Tea

With all of his bland, flavorless food requests, I was not expecting to open his apartment door to such a colorful, stimulating studio.

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'.

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.

Some people fill their places with art and color, like Vincent.
Some people fill their places with people.
Some people want to be surrounded by order,
Or memories
Or collections (anyone who has seen my closet knows all about this).

Some people want their places uncluttered, simple, almost bare.

But most people want to decide for themselves. To extend themselves into wherever they are the most.

Vincent now seems himself, when he's in his place, throwing his being all over the floor and the shelves and the walls.

Life Snows On

Yesterday, it was cold, and it snowed. According to Carrie, this was nothing new.

"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."

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.

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.

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.

"Anna, there's goin' be snow and cold 'til spring. And you can always count on that."

Bare

He'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.

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.

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.

"These socks are just fine."

"They're wet. They're going to freeze when you go outside."

"I've been doing it this way all along."

"You'll get frostbite."

"If I take off my socks, my feet will fall apart."

"No, your feet will fall apart if you don't take off your socks."

"I'm not changing them."

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.

And he pauses, thinking.

"Just tell me when it's my turn."

And he continues. And I wait.
And now he stops.

And I hold up three pairs of new, thick, black socks. And I say,
"Dean, are you going to do this, or am I?"

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.

And one by one, I peel off his tattered, soaking, salt-stained socks.

And 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.

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.

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.

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.

2 Vitamins, 2 Cough Drops, 2 Starlite Peppermints

When Jerry walks in, we lay them all in two lines:

2 Vitamins, for preventative health
2 Cough Drops, for sinus health
2 Starlite Peppermints, for breath

Capsule Capsule, Paper Wrapper Paper Wrapper, Cellophane Cellophane

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.

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.

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.

We've found common ground in our lack of motivation, and now, in our mineral-rich bloodstreams.

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.

Mad World

I 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.

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.

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.

I began to understand that anger appears stronger than embarrassment or defeat. Anger is powerful, not vulnerable.

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...
... she lays her head on the desk and weeps.