When I was working on my master's degree in social work, I had to take a "diversity" class as one of the basic requirements. I was pretty pissed that I had to take it; I'd had all kinds of diversity stuff in my undergrad, I'd been in the field for some years, and I feared that it would be rubbish, as so many of these things are. The instructor was fantastic, though, and I loved that class. I was taking it with about 25 other students, most from other countries, and our conversations were fascinating. I learned about native peoples in Taiwan and Kenyan insults ("A hyena in sheep's clothing.")
There was also a lot of talk about privilege, which is not something I had ever thought about before, and the insights of the class have stayed with me. I started to become aware of many ways in which I am privileged (and know there may be some ways of which i am not aware) and know that I have been afforded opportunities and blessings that would have have been available to someone less privileged.
If I try to talk to other people (of a similar background) about privilege, the usual response is a defensive one - they become confused and frequently get defensive. They start to justify to me their success, or tell me about their struggles or how hard they've worked - they're not really willing to hear beyond that. I don't bring up privilege because I want to negate the work someone did to be who they are. Yet there is also an insidious and invisible barrier for some people that doesn't exist for others.
I found this checklist about social class privilege and it has some excellent examples of class privilege. It's an interesting list, and some of these things are eye-opening. It is not at all exhaustive, and some things may be more true than others, but I thought it was really good.
"Social Class Privilege Checklist; This list is based on Peggy McIntosh's article on which privilege. These dynamics are but a few examples of the privilege which people form upper social classes have. On a daily basis as an upper social class person...
1. I don't need to worry about learning the social customs of others.
2. The "better people" are in my social group.
3. It is likely that my career and financial success will be attributed to my hard work.
4. People appear to pay attention to my social class.
5. When I am shopping, people usually call me "Sir" or "Ma'am."
6. When making a purchase with check or credit card, my appearance doesn't create problems.
7. When I, or my children, are taught about history, people form my social class are represented in the books.
8. I can speak easily with my attorney or physician.
9. There are neighborhoods I can move to where I feel "at home."
10. There are places where I can be among those exclusively from my social class.
11. I can deny Social Class Privilege by asserting that all social classes are essentially the same.
12 Experts appearing on mass media are from my social class.
13. There are stores that market especially to people form my social class.
14. I can protect myself and my children from people who may not like us based on my social class.
15. Law enforcement officials will likely assume I am a non-threatening person once they see me and hear me.
16. Disclosure of my work and education may actually help law enforcement officials perceive me as being "in the right" or "unbiased."
17. I can speak easily to my child's college professors.
18. My citizenship and immigration status will likely not be questioned, and my background will likely not be investigated because of my social class.
19. I can be sure that my social class will be an advantage when seeking medical or legal help.
20. If I wish my children to attend private schools, I have a variety of options.
21. I can find colleges that have many people from my social class as students and that welcome me or my child.
22. If I apply for a prestigious job competing with people of a lower class, my social class will be to my advantage.
23. The decision to hire me will be related to my background and where I went to school.
24. When I watch TV or read the papers I can see people of my own class represented well.
25. The "newsmakers" are like me.
26. I deserve my status because of my accomplishments.
27. If I get offered a job over someone with more experience, it is because I deserve it.
28. My elected representatives share a similar background with mine.
29. Chances are, the person in charge in any organization is like me or is sympathetic to my status.
30. My child is never ignored in school, and if there are problems, I am called by the teacher or principal.
31. People are usually careful with their language and grammar around me."
I thought these are excellent examples of class privilege, though just the tip of the iceberg. What do you think? Do you think privilege affects your lives?
Monday, December 17, 2012
Monday, July 23, 2012
Thursday
Greg was talking in education yesterday, about the five calender years (five *straight* years!) he was homeless. He was talking about all the people he had known when he was using that helped him get sober, even if it didn't seem like it at the time (like the police or judges). One person he mentioned never thanking was a woman who, every Thursday, walked by where he was sleeping and left a bag of McDonald's for him. Every week, every Thursday. He doesn't know who she was, he never talked to her. Every Thursday. That kills me.
He's sober now, and spreading out, carrying the message farther to people who need it. Especially on Thursdays.
He's sober now, and spreading out, carrying the message farther to people who need it. Especially on Thursdays.
Friday, March 23, 2012
Yucky love stuff
Its important for social workers to maintain boundaries with their clients, and personal feelings about clients are a slippery slope, mostly something to be managed. The hiccup is that, as human beings and especially as social workers, our feelings are often the fuel behind our fire. They are very real to us, a large part of who we are, and can't just be dismissed.
Lancaster was my client, off and on, for several years, and he worked through a lot with me, I did a lot of work on his behalf. I really believed in him, that recovery and a better life were possible for him. Last October, he passed away; we're still not sure how. I was really upset when I learned of it, and one of my first thoughts was, "I don't think he knew how much I love him." That has no part in the treatment plans or case notes we write with and about clients. There is no evidence-based method for communicating something like this. I literally wished I could see him one more time to tell him. When I've thought about him these past several months, I've felt sad and regretful, mournful.
Last night, I think he came to see me in a dream. I was standing in a hallway, he was in a room. He was clean and calm, not all jittery and excited and loud like he had been in life. When he saw me he came straight to me, as though he'd been looking for me. We hugged tightly for a long time. Nothing was said, and that was it.
Now I feel like he knew I loved him, how much, and he was saying good-bye, maybe letting me know he was at peace. Maybe he knew I was grieving him. Now when I think about him, I feel peace.
Lancaster was my client, off and on, for several years, and he worked through a lot with me, I did a lot of work on his behalf. I really believed in him, that recovery and a better life were possible for him. Last October, he passed away; we're still not sure how. I was really upset when I learned of it, and one of my first thoughts was, "I don't think he knew how much I love him." That has no part in the treatment plans or case notes we write with and about clients. There is no evidence-based method for communicating something like this. I literally wished I could see him one more time to tell him. When I've thought about him these past several months, I've felt sad and regretful, mournful.
Last night, I think he came to see me in a dream. I was standing in a hallway, he was in a room. He was clean and calm, not all jittery and excited and loud like he had been in life. When he saw me he came straight to me, as though he'd been looking for me. We hugged tightly for a long time. Nothing was said, and that was it.
Now I feel like he knew I loved him, how much, and he was saying good-bye, maybe letting me know he was at peace. Maybe he knew I was grieving him. Now when I think about him, I feel peace.
Friday, March 9, 2012
Tables turn
Greg was sharing a bit of his story with a newcomers in our group therapy. "You know, it's rough out here on these streets. If you haven't been on the homeless trail - sleeping in the rain and the snow, carrying everything you own on your back, walking everywhere - if you haven't been on it, you don't know how hard it is." Another group member chimed in "It's a motherfucking job." Greg continued with a nod in his direction, "But you know, I was watching channel 9 the other night (the local public broadcast station) and you know, we are so lucky to be in America. People in other countries, third world countries, don't even have places like this agency, have electricity, have cell phones...cars...school... We are so lucky." Other group members were nodding their heads in agreement.
Greg is a two and a half-year sober illiterate crack addict living in a drug-ridden slum. He carries a picture in his wallet of himself in his using days - skinny, scabs on his face - and he tells us, weekly, about his abusive partner and his frustrated attempts to get away from her without raising the attention of the police and jeopardizing his parole.
He has a large heart, and can easily empathize with people in terrible circumstances. His own life could be worse, and he knows that. After all he's lived through, survived, he knows it could be worse. I thought about how many people couldn't imagine living in conditions like his, myself included, and count ourselves blessed not to be in his shoes.
Interesting how the tables turn.
Thursday, February 16, 2012
Bob's Bounce Back
When I was hired with my current agency, I was coming off a one year contract with the Red Cross. I had been with the Red Cross when Hurricane Katrina hit, and my agency was one of the first in town to offer assistance to the many survivors who drove until they could find an available hotel room
There was one man who worked with us, Bob Foster, who proved to be particularly challenging. He'd had a lifetime of mental illness and, except for the six years that Bob served in the Army as a mechanic, he had lived his whole life in New Orleans, safe in the supportive nest of family and long-time friends who understood his mental illnesses and could check up on him and assist him as needed. More importantly, his employer understood how to work with him, and he was able to live independently with the means to support himself.
On the morning after Katrina pushed over the region, Bob got up to sweep the leaves from his porch that had been scattered by the hurricane winds. Suddenly, he heard a loud booming sound that was very upsetting to him, as it sounded almost identical to bombs that he had heard in the military. In the half hour that followed, he noticed that a great silence had spread over his neighborhood, as the dogs stopped barking, the birds stopped chirping, and no cars sped by on the local freeway. Within another 30 minutes, he could hear the voices of his surprised neighbors as they discovered that the water pipes in their apartment complex had broken. Several minutes later, the electric power went off.
Confused and in the dark, Bob and his neighbors attempted to make sense of the domino occurrences. Then water began to creep into the street, the parking lot, the yard. The water rose from the ground to cover the base of the apartment, and then slipped uninvited into the building. Cold water stung unprepared toes as it seeped into individual apartments and began to cover the floors. Over the course of that first day, the water rose past the first floor and began to flood the second floor and into Bob’s apartment. At first he tried to mop the water up, however, he soon realized the futility of his efforts as the water climbed, unchecked, over his possessions. To escape, he climbed from his balcony to the roof of the building where he sat without food or water for two days until he was rescued by the Wildlife Fishermen.
He was airlifted to safety and then on to Illinois, where he learned that the deluge of water was not caused by broken pipes, but by a breached levee. In fact, the bomb-like sound that he had heard was the sound of the levee breaking. His entire neighborhood was underwater. He did not know where his family or neighbors were, he did not have the medications he required, he no longer had his job and he knew no one. Bob’s nest had blown apart.
Bob came to town to receive the assistance that was beginning to be made available to Katrina survivors by various agencies like mine. Furthermore, he took advantage of various programs available to him to secure permanent employment. Despite this, for many years, he struggled. He had to build a completely new home, and this took a lot of time and patience, particularly trying to get his medication in order and his symptoms under control.
So many years later, he still comes in for lunch from time to time, and we greet each other like old friends. I rarely have the opportunity to know my guys over time, particularly who have recovered so successfully. He is lucid and logical, and it warms my heart to see how well he doing, knowing how far he's come.
There was one man who worked with us, Bob Foster, who proved to be particularly challenging. He'd had a lifetime of mental illness and, except for the six years that Bob served in the Army as a mechanic, he had lived his whole life in New Orleans, safe in the supportive nest of family and long-time friends who understood his mental illnesses and could check up on him and assist him as needed. More importantly, his employer understood how to work with him, and he was able to live independently with the means to support himself.
On the morning after Katrina pushed over the region, Bob got up to sweep the leaves from his porch that had been scattered by the hurricane winds. Suddenly, he heard a loud booming sound that was very upsetting to him, as it sounded almost identical to bombs that he had heard in the military. In the half hour that followed, he noticed that a great silence had spread over his neighborhood, as the dogs stopped barking, the birds stopped chirping, and no cars sped by on the local freeway. Within another 30 minutes, he could hear the voices of his surprised neighbors as they discovered that the water pipes in their apartment complex had broken. Several minutes later, the electric power went off.
Confused and in the dark, Bob and his neighbors attempted to make sense of the domino occurrences. Then water began to creep into the street, the parking lot, the yard. The water rose from the ground to cover the base of the apartment, and then slipped uninvited into the building. Cold water stung unprepared toes as it seeped into individual apartments and began to cover the floors. Over the course of that first day, the water rose past the first floor and began to flood the second floor and into Bob’s apartment. At first he tried to mop the water up, however, he soon realized the futility of his efforts as the water climbed, unchecked, over his possessions. To escape, he climbed from his balcony to the roof of the building where he sat without food or water for two days until he was rescued by the Wildlife Fishermen.
He was airlifted to safety and then on to Illinois, where he learned that the deluge of water was not caused by broken pipes, but by a breached levee. In fact, the bomb-like sound that he had heard was the sound of the levee breaking. His entire neighborhood was underwater. He did not know where his family or neighbors were, he did not have the medications he required, he no longer had his job and he knew no one. Bob’s nest had blown apart.
Bob came to town to receive the assistance that was beginning to be made available to Katrina survivors by various agencies like mine. Furthermore, he took advantage of various programs available to him to secure permanent employment. Despite this, for many years, he struggled. He had to build a completely new home, and this took a lot of time and patience, particularly trying to get his medication in order and his symptoms under control.
So many years later, he still comes in for lunch from time to time, and we greet each other like old friends. I rarely have the opportunity to know my guys over time, particularly who have recovered so successfully. He is lucid and logical, and it warms my heart to see how well he doing, knowing how far he's come.
Sunday, January 29, 2012
Simple day
Yesterday was a peaceful day. I took a puzzle to the dining room and began working on it, inviting others to participate. One man joined me, new to our program, newly homeless, and we talked and cracked jokes about his current circumstances. Next to us was a small group of people who like to draw. They had pulled out the Center's supply of colored pencils and paints, and were discussing color schemes and creating different pictures. At the next table over, another small circle sat drinking coffee together, telling jokes and tall tales.
There was no treatment, no talk of trauma or using, just laughing and imagining. Just people. Just a community.
Saturday, June 11, 2011
Watch out - gorilla crossing!
One of my guys came back to visit me today. He has long since stopped coming because he started taking classes at a trade school. I helped him write essays for financial aid applications to begin there, several of which he received, and we worked hard together before he left.
When he first began with me, got some clean time and started to make plans about school, he kept talking about "attacking" his schoolwork with everything he could, with such strength that would completely change his life. He said, "Look Miss Sarah - I got enough things going against me. I'm a felon, and I'm black. I need to start stacking the cards in my favor. I'm goin' in there to attack like a goRILLa, (with the emphasis on the second syllable)." As I'm also in school, he frequently used that description as I told him stories about it.
Throughout the past year, he'd drop by for lunch on occasion, and we'd greet each other by raising our hands over our shoulders in a flexing gesture and growling: GoRILLa. He's at the top of his class, and he has gained a lot of respect, especially for himself. We'd swap stories about projects or classes we were taking, and this characterization would frequently came into our descriptions.
When he first began with me, got some clean time and started to make plans about school, he kept talking about "attacking" his schoolwork with everything he could, with such strength that would completely change his life. He said, "Look Miss Sarah - I got enough things going against me. I'm a felon, and I'm black. I need to start stacking the cards in my favor. I'm goin' in there to attack like a goRILLa, (with the emphasis on the second syllable)." As I'm also in school, he frequently used that description as I told him stories about it.
Throughout the past year, he'd drop by for lunch on occasion, and we'd greet each other by raising our hands over our shoulders in a flexing gesture and growling: GoRILLa. He's at the top of his class, and he has gained a lot of respect, especially for himself. We'd swap stories about projects or classes we were taking, and this characterization would frequently came into our descriptions.
To do your best at something, to attack it vigorously. I hope that for all of us.
Six months later
I can't believe it's almost over, after six months. All the planning and worrying and hoping before my practicum, then the practicum itself - still working, taking a class, taking a pay cut, missing family events... Now it's over and I've been granted a two month reprieve before a new semester begins.
I've been reflecting on the first saturday that I was working in this new schedule, and a doctor stopped me to help a woman he found in the highway. I wondered if today would have a similar experience, kind of like bookends. When this first started, though I was anxious, I was incredibly and suprisingly relieved to be away from my current position, and I realized how completely involved I was with my clients and their world. It was scary to realize how wrapped up I was with the homeless circuit, because it was hard to get away from. It was actually kind of draining, and as I started this practicum, I felt revived, like wind had been put back into my sails. I started to remember other interests I have and feel like I could do something about them, an emboldening fire that drives me when I'm really amped about something. I felt that fire several times during my project, doing a little anti-payday lending work, organizing with other professionals, asking questions, thinking about the direction of my career. I like that fire, put trust in it and gravitate towards it. It was good to be reminded.
There are so many ways to work for social justice besides being 'with' people in their pain and their efforts to overcome and recover. It's good to be reminded, and I look forward to beginning new ways.
I've been reflecting on the first saturday that I was working in this new schedule, and a doctor stopped me to help a woman he found in the highway. I wondered if today would have a similar experience, kind of like bookends. When this first started, though I was anxious, I was incredibly and suprisingly relieved to be away from my current position, and I realized how completely involved I was with my clients and their world. It was scary to realize how wrapped up I was with the homeless circuit, because it was hard to get away from. It was actually kind of draining, and as I started this practicum, I felt revived, like wind had been put back into my sails. I started to remember other interests I have and feel like I could do something about them, an emboldening fire that drives me when I'm really amped about something. I felt that fire several times during my project, doing a little anti-payday lending work, organizing with other professionals, asking questions, thinking about the direction of my career. I like that fire, put trust in it and gravitate towards it. It was good to be reminded.
There are so many ways to work for social justice besides being 'with' people in their pain and their efforts to overcome and recover. It's good to be reminded, and I look forward to beginning new ways.
Saturday, January 8, 2011
Unexpected privilege
How quickly a day can change, how quickly a life can change.
I was heading to work yesterday, Saturday, preparing myself to begin an overwhelming six months of work, internship, and a law class. I had just gotten a wicked speeding ticket from an extremely nice state patrolman, and the morning wind was bitter.
As I got out of the car on the side of the agency, a man in a dark blue jacket and the blue pajamas of a doctor met me on the sidewalk. His phone was open and I could hear the on-hold music through the receiver.
"Excuse me, do you work here?" he asked and I nodded. "Please help me; I... I don't... I'm a doctor at Barnes Hospital and I was working last night. I got off at 4 am and was driving home, and I found a woman in the middle of 64 (the local highway). I've been trying to get in touch with someone who can help," he pointed helplessly at his unanswered phone, "and somebody told me to come here - that you're a homeless shelter?" My agency isn't a really a shelter, but that wasn't the point. Again I nodded, noting his uncertainty and following his lead. He said, "Come and see; she's still in my car."
By this point, we began walking around the building to his car. The wind was whipping around us furiously, and bitingly cold. He continued, "I'm not a social worker, and I don't know what to do. I picked her up and just drove around; she couldn't talk. I didn't know what to do, so I just drove. I went to Hardee's and spent a few hours drinking coffee while she slept." he said. "I'm going on no sleep, and I didn't know what else to do."
He was clearly anxious and it seemed like he had about reached his stress limit, so I tried to calm him. "We're not really a shelter, just have a few cots for women, but it was the right thing to bring her here. We can help." He pointed again to his phone. "I heard that she can't get into anywhere without a referral, I'm just..." he began, and I again reassured him, hoping to settle his nervousness.
We reached his car, and I looked fruitlessly through the window for another person. He opened his driver's side door, and I saw see a bundle of coats slumped against the passenger door. We both stood by his open door, and he leaned in to wake her. "Maria? Maria?" After several moments, she was roused, and he circled around to the passenger door to help her get out and told her that he had found a place where she could receive help. Very groggy, she got out of the car and stumbled while trying to pull her too-big jeans up. I asked her a few questions, but she had trouble answering them. I told her my name, and told her where she was. "Can we go somewhere out of the cold?" she asked, one of the first coherent things I'd heard her say. As I led them both into the building, I asked her some basic questions, trying to learn about her and also trying to ascertain if she was under the influence or ill. The doctor was following behind us, juggling a sandwich and coffee he had bought for her with his phone.
We entered the building and I took them upstairs to the day center. I showed Maria where she could sit, pointed out the coffee pot, and told her we would be serving breakfast soon. I went back into my office where the doctor was waiting on his phone, and when I entered he asked me, "Do I still need to be on here?" I told him she could call herself from my building, that she would be warm and safe all during the day. He hung up slowly; tears were brimming in his eyes. "Let's exchange contact information in case you need to get a hold of me," he said, "and let me have your card; maybe my wife can call you when she asks where I've been all night," he finished jokingly, yet mirthlessly. I took his name and number and gave him my card.
He turned away, and then quickly turned back to me. "Do you guys take donations?" he asked, catching me off guard. After I told him we did, he quickly pulled out his wallet and selected several bills and gave them to me. I didn't really know what to say to this, after all he had just done for a stranger. I just thanked him, knowing that was inadequate.
He didn't say anything, but just stood staring blankly for a few seconds before quickly leaving my office. He might have been having trouble leaving Maria, especially after having cared for her all night. I caught up with him at the security lock and buzzed him through. I led him down to the hall to the stairway, and when we reached the top of the stairs, he slowed to a stop and turned to me, staring over my shoulder. Tears were again forming in his eyes, and he opened his mouth as though to speak. After a few minutes of not finding the words, he gave up and began to go downstairs. After a few steps, he again stopped turned to me, and again, stared over my shoulder. "I don't do this kind of thing," he said softly, shaking his head. "I diagnose brain tumors in children, but I don't..." he trailed off. He went down a few more steps, and again stopped and turned to me. We stood silently for another minute, after which he quickly went the rest of the way downstairs and fled the building without another word.
After saying a few words of prayer of thanks for being able to witness such humble and selfless care of another human being, a stranger, I went back upstairs to check on Maria and help her get settled. She ate breakfast and slept until lunch when she awoke and was able to speak more clearly. I finally got a better idea about what she might need help with. She told me she didn't think she could eat for fear of vomiting, and she was feeling more and more agitated, a token of the DTs of alcohol withdrawal. She said she'd never been in treatment before, and she said no. "I've tried to quit," she said, "but by the time I get to this point, I get another drink." She quietly stared in the distance. "I don't know," she said, "maybe this is God's way of telling me I should quit now."
As the day went on, Maria became more and more lucid and sober, though her legs began to jerk uncontrollably, another symptom of DTs. We took her to the agency clothing room to get her a change of clothes, and also some toiletries and a shower, after which we talked more about what was going on with her. "I don't even know how that man found me," she said, having completely blacked out. I said, "Maria, it was 4 am, and you were walking in the middle of the highway." Her expression became one of frozen disbelief, and I continued. "He stayed up with you for the rest of the night until he found us and could get you help."
*****
This is the kind of event that has the potential to change a person's life. I don't yet know what change this will have on Maria's life, though I suspect that it will, at the very least, stay with her, as it will certainly stay with the doctor, and me as well. What an unexpected privilege to have witnessed it and been a part of it.
I was heading to work yesterday, Saturday, preparing myself to begin an overwhelming six months of work, internship, and a law class. I had just gotten a wicked speeding ticket from an extremely nice state patrolman, and the morning wind was bitter.
As I got out of the car on the side of the agency, a man in a dark blue jacket and the blue pajamas of a doctor met me on the sidewalk. His phone was open and I could hear the on-hold music through the receiver.
"Excuse me, do you work here?" he asked and I nodded. "Please help me; I... I don't... I'm a doctor at Barnes Hospital and I was working last night. I got off at 4 am and was driving home, and I found a woman in the middle of 64 (the local highway). I've been trying to get in touch with someone who can help," he pointed helplessly at his unanswered phone, "and somebody told me to come here - that you're a homeless shelter?" My agency isn't a really a shelter, but that wasn't the point. Again I nodded, noting his uncertainty and following his lead. He said, "Come and see; she's still in my car."
By this point, we began walking around the building to his car. The wind was whipping around us furiously, and bitingly cold. He continued, "I'm not a social worker, and I don't know what to do. I picked her up and just drove around; she couldn't talk. I didn't know what to do, so I just drove. I went to Hardee's and spent a few hours drinking coffee while she slept." he said. "I'm going on no sleep, and I didn't know what else to do."
He was clearly anxious and it seemed like he had about reached his stress limit, so I tried to calm him. "We're not really a shelter, just have a few cots for women, but it was the right thing to bring her here. We can help." He pointed again to his phone. "I heard that she can't get into anywhere without a referral, I'm just..." he began, and I again reassured him, hoping to settle his nervousness.
We reached his car, and I looked fruitlessly through the window for another person. He opened his driver's side door, and I saw see a bundle of coats slumped against the passenger door. We both stood by his open door, and he leaned in to wake her. "Maria? Maria?" After several moments, she was roused, and he circled around to the passenger door to help her get out and told her that he had found a place where she could receive help. Very groggy, she got out of the car and stumbled while trying to pull her too-big jeans up. I asked her a few questions, but she had trouble answering them. I told her my name, and told her where she was. "Can we go somewhere out of the cold?" she asked, one of the first coherent things I'd heard her say. As I led them both into the building, I asked her some basic questions, trying to learn about her and also trying to ascertain if she was under the influence or ill. The doctor was following behind us, juggling a sandwich and coffee he had bought for her with his phone.
We entered the building and I took them upstairs to the day center. I showed Maria where she could sit, pointed out the coffee pot, and told her we would be serving breakfast soon. I went back into my office where the doctor was waiting on his phone, and when I entered he asked me, "Do I still need to be on here?" I told him she could call herself from my building, that she would be warm and safe all during the day. He hung up slowly; tears were brimming in his eyes. "Let's exchange contact information in case you need to get a hold of me," he said, "and let me have your card; maybe my wife can call you when she asks where I've been all night," he finished jokingly, yet mirthlessly. I took his name and number and gave him my card.
He turned away, and then quickly turned back to me. "Do you guys take donations?" he asked, catching me off guard. After I told him we did, he quickly pulled out his wallet and selected several bills and gave them to me. I didn't really know what to say to this, after all he had just done for a stranger. I just thanked him, knowing that was inadequate.
He didn't say anything, but just stood staring blankly for a few seconds before quickly leaving my office. He might have been having trouble leaving Maria, especially after having cared for her all night. I caught up with him at the security lock and buzzed him through. I led him down to the hall to the stairway, and when we reached the top of the stairs, he slowed to a stop and turned to me, staring over my shoulder. Tears were again forming in his eyes, and he opened his mouth as though to speak. After a few minutes of not finding the words, he gave up and began to go downstairs. After a few steps, he again stopped turned to me, and again, stared over my shoulder. "I don't do this kind of thing," he said softly, shaking his head. "I diagnose brain tumors in children, but I don't..." he trailed off. He went down a few more steps, and again stopped and turned to me. We stood silently for another minute, after which he quickly went the rest of the way downstairs and fled the building without another word.
After saying a few words of prayer of thanks for being able to witness such humble and selfless care of another human being, a stranger, I went back upstairs to check on Maria and help her get settled. She ate breakfast and slept until lunch when she awoke and was able to speak more clearly. I finally got a better idea about what she might need help with. She told me she didn't think she could eat for fear of vomiting, and she was feeling more and more agitated, a token of the DTs of alcohol withdrawal. She said she'd never been in treatment before, and she said no. "I've tried to quit," she said, "but by the time I get to this point, I get another drink." She quietly stared in the distance. "I don't know," she said, "maybe this is God's way of telling me I should quit now."
As the day went on, Maria became more and more lucid and sober, though her legs began to jerk uncontrollably, another symptom of DTs. We took her to the agency clothing room to get her a change of clothes, and also some toiletries and a shower, after which we talked more about what was going on with her. "I don't even know how that man found me," she said, having completely blacked out. I said, "Maria, it was 4 am, and you were walking in the middle of the highway." Her expression became one of frozen disbelief, and I continued. "He stayed up with you for the rest of the night until he found us and could get you help."
*****
This is the kind of event that has the potential to change a person's life. I don't yet know what change this will have on Maria's life, though I suspect that it will, at the very least, stay with her, as it will certainly stay with the doctor, and me as well. What an unexpected privilege to have witnessed it and been a part of it.
Wednesday, December 29, 2010
Mental Health Hero nomination
A department within this state (I forget which one) runs a little contest each year for the Mental Health Champion in which the case worker writes about a client with a mental illness, their recovery, and the ways in which they inspire other people. There is a recognition ceremony
in the capital for them, and a little prize as well. Most importantly, they get recognized for how special they are to have not given up, to have continued working. There is a woman I've written about before on this blog, Shalle, who I nominated this year. I haven't yet heard if she's won, but I wanted to share what the nomination essay.
Shalle is a mental health champion for both the recovery in her own life and the effect her spirit has on others. Even without bipolar disorder, the forces that threatened Shalle’s successful life chances were great. Raised by a single addicted mother, she began abusing crack herself when she was 13, and for almost 20 years, perpetuated the family pattern of drug abuse and prostitution. In 2008, this combination left her pregnant with her second daughter. She felt compelled, for the first time, to seek a new way of life, foreign to her, in which her coming child would be spared the drama and trauma of her own childhood. She had no example to follow, but began to take tentative first steps towards adulthood.
She again quit using drugs, for the final time, the most important time, and moved into a homeless shelter. She began to access and utilize services available to a pregnant woman and prepare for her coming daughter. She tenaciously adhered to the medication requirements through the uncomfortable give and take of different combinations, and she faithfully attended 12-step meetings. Most importantly, in the face of loneliness and rejection, she began to seek out a different social support system, one that did not glorify the street life.
Upon her daughter’s birth, some well-meaning family members, unaware of Shalle’s budding transformation, involved child protective services for fear of possible mistreatment. There was little chance of this, however, as her motivation to succeed was renewed every time she saw her baby. With the help of local agencies, she secured an apartment, took parenting classes and maintained the many DFS requirements necessary to keep her child. She did such a good job that, at the end of September, DFS decided that she no longer needed their supervision.
During this time, she began to work small jobs, particularly around the mental health center she attends daily. They gave her a small job of doing other clients’ laundry in exchange for a small stipend, a position reserved for someone mature and trustworthy. During this time, she has grown in self-confidence and self-respect, and she treats every person she helps with dignity and care. She continues to fearlessly face her own emotions, insecurities, fears, and ghosts of the past that continually threaten her sobriety. Finally, she is also reaching out to her elder daughter, who followed in her own footsteps of life on the street.
She faithfully and bravely works to reach her goals of sanity and self-discovery. Even in the face of disappointments, she perseveres. She is a model for others of a successful transition from a drug abusing mentally ill woman wrapped up in prostitution, to an independent sober parent. The changes that Shalle is continuing to make in her life and the way she bravely shares them with others makes her the local mental health champion. People look up to her as proof that the sober life can be achieved. She has done it with perseverance, humility, dignity and class.
in the capital for them, and a little prize as well. Most importantly, they get recognized for how special they are to have not given up, to have continued working. There is a woman I've written about before on this blog, Shalle, who I nominated this year. I haven't yet heard if she's won, but I wanted to share what the nomination essay.
Shalle is a mental health champion for both the recovery in her own life and the effect her spirit has on others. Even without bipolar disorder, the forces that threatened Shalle’s successful life chances were great. Raised by a single addicted mother, she began abusing crack herself when she was 13, and for almost 20 years, perpetuated the family pattern of drug abuse and prostitution. In 2008, this combination left her pregnant with her second daughter. She felt compelled, for the first time, to seek a new way of life, foreign to her, in which her coming child would be spared the drama and trauma of her own childhood. She had no example to follow, but began to take tentative first steps towards adulthood.
She again quit using drugs, for the final time, the most important time, and moved into a homeless shelter. She began to access and utilize services available to a pregnant woman and prepare for her coming daughter. She tenaciously adhered to the medication requirements through the uncomfortable give and take of different combinations, and she faithfully attended 12-step meetings. Most importantly, in the face of loneliness and rejection, she began to seek out a different social support system, one that did not glorify the street life.
Upon her daughter’s birth, some well-meaning family members, unaware of Shalle’s budding transformation, involved child protective services for fear of possible mistreatment. There was little chance of this, however, as her motivation to succeed was renewed every time she saw her baby. With the help of local agencies, she secured an apartment, took parenting classes and maintained the many DFS requirements necessary to keep her child. She did such a good job that, at the end of September, DFS decided that she no longer needed their supervision.
During this time, she began to work small jobs, particularly around the mental health center she attends daily. They gave her a small job of doing other clients’ laundry in exchange for a small stipend, a position reserved for someone mature and trustworthy. During this time, she has grown in self-confidence and self-respect, and she treats every person she helps with dignity and care. She continues to fearlessly face her own emotions, insecurities, fears, and ghosts of the past that continually threaten her sobriety. Finally, she is also reaching out to her elder daughter, who followed in her own footsteps of life on the street.
She faithfully and bravely works to reach her goals of sanity and self-discovery. Even in the face of disappointments, she perseveres. She is a model for others of a successful transition from a drug abusing mentally ill woman wrapped up in prostitution, to an independent sober parent. The changes that Shalle is continuing to make in her life and the way she bravely shares them with others makes her the local mental health champion. People look up to her as proof that the sober life can be achieved. She has done it with perseverance, humility, dignity and class.
Sunday, December 26, 2010
I knew I wrote him!
Kent is a man who has been around my center for many many years. His attempts for sobriety have been sporadic, and even now, is not total, however, he has stopped smoking crack and, though still drinking, doing it less. A simple man, its sometimes difficult to talk to him, and I have frequently mistaken this as a reticence to talk to me, but over time, I think I understand him a little better, and our relationship has solidified into one of humor. He's quiet and self-conscious about his missing teeth, which prevents him from smiling broadly, so it usually takes him a little while before he feels comfortable saying something.
My agency organizes Christmas giveaway for our clients who usually fill out an anonymous form with shoe and clothing sizes for themselves and their children, as well as special toy requests. For our department's guys, since they don't have any place to store gifts, we ask for gift cards, and each counselor gives them to their clients. We also ask them to write a thank you note for the donor. I caught Kent on his way through my office to give him his. I said, "Santa came and left a gift for you." He said, "Did he? I knew I wrote him!"
This was such a quick response and one so witty that it still calls up a chuckle and was a good beginning to the holiday weekend.
My agency organizes Christmas giveaway for our clients who usually fill out an anonymous form with shoe and clothing sizes for themselves and their children, as well as special toy requests. For our department's guys, since they don't have any place to store gifts, we ask for gift cards, and each counselor gives them to their clients. We also ask them to write a thank you note for the donor. I caught Kent on his way through my office to give him his. I said, "Santa came and left a gift for you." He said, "Did he? I knew I wrote him!"
This was such a quick response and one so witty that it still calls up a chuckle and was a good beginning to the holiday weekend.
Monday, September 6, 2010
Meeting Maurice
Maurice has come into our agency for several months, if not years. Homeless for many years and extremely delusional, he can be loud and frightening. As part of his protective street persona, he rarely smiles, is loud, and often talks to the voices he hears so it frequently doesn't make sense.
For a long time, we've just been working with him so that he'll become used to a routine, coming into our program every day, remaining calm, remaining around people all day, the fundamental kinds of social intercouse that can be extremely difficult for one so delusional and accustomed to censure. He became willing to complete an intake with us - something that had before now been too threatening. I was assigned as his direct worker - someone he would connect with on a regular basis, someone with whom he would, eventually, utilize a treatment plan.
The first morning he had his route sheet - the slip of paper someone needs to enter the program every morning - he was taken aback when we asked for it. He did not react abraisively, as I was afraid he would, but I could tell that he was starting to feel overwhelmed, which can easily elicit an expected response. Having a hunch that he perhaps didn't fully understand, I approached him later in the morning and asked if he had a minute to talk. "No," he said, his face expressionless. After a moment, the mask cracked as I saw the corners of his mouth turn up. "I've got years." he finished, streching out the vowel sound. It took m a second to piece together his joke, but he was smiling wider than I'd ever seen before. We sat down together, my mind racing with what I would say and also marveling at how proud he seemed of himself, what this might mean for him.
I took out a route sheet and explained it to him: the purpose of it and our expectations surrounding it. This hadn't before been explained to him, and I could tell he didn't understand at first, but he paid close attention to the things I was saying and eventually got it. On these sheets are spaces left for people to attend certain programs we offer, but I wasn't going to ask that of Maurice just yet. He pointed to the spaces anyway and asked if he needed to attent them. I told him that, eventually, I would ask it of him. For several minutes, he stared off straight ahead of him, he face arranged in a scowl I so often see on him. Suddenly he said, "Different music." At first, I was unsure whether he was talking to me or to something else only he heard. Then I realized that he was referring to the classical or ambient CDs that people play sometimes. By that point, he was smiling, and I realized that, while he was serious, he was also playing with me. I asked him what music he would pick, and again, he started in the distance. "Soul," he finally answered with a large smile. I laughed with him for a little bit, and then we went on with our mornings.
Insignificant, this interaction could be, perhaps for someone historically more functioning. For Maurice, however, this is evidence of playfulness and good humor that I've never seen before, that he may have never been able to reveal before. This interaction also revealed to me how little I know him, how little I know of him, but that's the fun part.
For a long time, we've just been working with him so that he'll become used to a routine, coming into our program every day, remaining calm, remaining around people all day, the fundamental kinds of social intercouse that can be extremely difficult for one so delusional and accustomed to censure. He became willing to complete an intake with us - something that had before now been too threatening. I was assigned as his direct worker - someone he would connect with on a regular basis, someone with whom he would, eventually, utilize a treatment plan.
The first morning he had his route sheet - the slip of paper someone needs to enter the program every morning - he was taken aback when we asked for it. He did not react abraisively, as I was afraid he would, but I could tell that he was starting to feel overwhelmed, which can easily elicit an expected response. Having a hunch that he perhaps didn't fully understand, I approached him later in the morning and asked if he had a minute to talk. "No," he said, his face expressionless. After a moment, the mask cracked as I saw the corners of his mouth turn up. "I've got years." he finished, streching out the vowel sound. It took m a second to piece together his joke, but he was smiling wider than I'd ever seen before. We sat down together, my mind racing with what I would say and also marveling at how proud he seemed of himself, what this might mean for him.
I took out a route sheet and explained it to him: the purpose of it and our expectations surrounding it. This hadn't before been explained to him, and I could tell he didn't understand at first, but he paid close attention to the things I was saying and eventually got it. On these sheets are spaces left for people to attend certain programs we offer, but I wasn't going to ask that of Maurice just yet. He pointed to the spaces anyway and asked if he needed to attent them. I told him that, eventually, I would ask it of him. For several minutes, he stared off straight ahead of him, he face arranged in a scowl I so often see on him. Suddenly he said, "Different music." At first, I was unsure whether he was talking to me or to something else only he heard. Then I realized that he was referring to the classical or ambient CDs that people play sometimes. By that point, he was smiling, and I realized that, while he was serious, he was also playing with me. I asked him what music he would pick, and again, he started in the distance. "Soul," he finally answered with a large smile. I laughed with him for a little bit, and then we went on with our mornings.
Insignificant, this interaction could be, perhaps for someone historically more functioning. For Maurice, however, this is evidence of playfulness and good humor that I've never seen before, that he may have never been able to reveal before. This interaction also revealed to me how little I know him, how little I know of him, but that's the fun part.
Thursday, July 8, 2010
Beautiful hope
Last Thursday was a day that I was glad I keep this blog to remember happy and good things about the job. Because that evening, I was not feeling a bit of it, neither happy nor good. I had just returned from a trip to the police station with a client, Maria, who was raped several weeks ago. A report was filed that night, and a week later, as the rapist was lurking around her, she called them again, added to the report and a warrant was issued for his arrest. As it happens, this rapist was my client about a year ago, so I knew his name and information, but was kept by HIPPA laws from providing it to the authorities. Instead, I merely stood by her and prompted her to provide useful details she omitted.
Over the weekend, the guy was found and brought into the police station. When they tried to find Maria, however, they were unsuccessful, because she's homeless and wanders. Since they couldn't find her, they let him go. Last week, she and I went to the police station to learn what her options were, but we didn't hear any possibilities. In fact, it sounded like it was just dropped. Just closed. Like it was nothing, nothing at all.
I found myself doing what social workers shouldn't do - take something like this personally. I kept thinking, "This could be me. But for the grace of God, this could be me." It got to the point that I couldn't think about any way to help my client, because any time I thought about it, I felt helpless and weak, and I was so frustrated. I felt further disempowered because I couldn't help her in her case, even though I knew the information she needed.
The turning point came when I read responses to my frustrated post on Facebook. As a social worker, I have a number of social worker friends, and they are connected with resources that I can't think of in the moment. Furthermore, they could offer support, even over a digital medium, and their words were encouraging. The following morning, armed with resource names and contact information, I began making calls to sexual assault and legal advocates, and was immediately lifted up. They were extremely helpful and uber informative, and I was quickly armed with several options for empowering and assisting Maria.
But it didn't end there. Later that morning, I met with another woman I've been working with for about a year. She'd recently left a long-term relationship she was no longer happy with, but this day, she disclosed how controlling and abusive he's been to her, something she'd not before let on to me, I think out of embarassment. He's slapped her several times, and he threw a brick into her father's window, almost hitting her. As she was sharing this with me, I could see the shame that had been wrapping around her for so long, finally being a little bit released because she could share it with someone. Because of the the research I had done for Maria, I immediately provide her with phone numbers, talk to her about different options and -most importantly - reassure her that she was not to blame.
I almost have chills when I think about how all of this came together. As dreadful as these circumstance are, I can't help but, when I think about them, marvel how the seemingly unrelated events harmonized. Through the discouraging day of bottomless frustration, an evening of tears, then loving support and suggestions, a morning of furious searching and information-gathering, and then - right when it was needed - hope. Beautiful hope.
Over the weekend, the guy was found and brought into the police station. When they tried to find Maria, however, they were unsuccessful, because she's homeless and wanders. Since they couldn't find her, they let him go. Last week, she and I went to the police station to learn what her options were, but we didn't hear any possibilities. In fact, it sounded like it was just dropped. Just closed. Like it was nothing, nothing at all.
I found myself doing what social workers shouldn't do - take something like this personally. I kept thinking, "This could be me. But for the grace of God, this could be me." It got to the point that I couldn't think about any way to help my client, because any time I thought about it, I felt helpless and weak, and I was so frustrated. I felt further disempowered because I couldn't help her in her case, even though I knew the information she needed.
The turning point came when I read responses to my frustrated post on Facebook. As a social worker, I have a number of social worker friends, and they are connected with resources that I can't think of in the moment. Furthermore, they could offer support, even over a digital medium, and their words were encouraging. The following morning, armed with resource names and contact information, I began making calls to sexual assault and legal advocates, and was immediately lifted up. They were extremely helpful and uber informative, and I was quickly armed with several options for empowering and assisting Maria.
But it didn't end there. Later that morning, I met with another woman I've been working with for about a year. She'd recently left a long-term relationship she was no longer happy with, but this day, she disclosed how controlling and abusive he's been to her, something she'd not before let on to me, I think out of embarassment. He's slapped her several times, and he threw a brick into her father's window, almost hitting her. As she was sharing this with me, I could see the shame that had been wrapping around her for so long, finally being a little bit released because she could share it with someone. Because of the the research I had done for Maria, I immediately provide her with phone numbers, talk to her about different options and -most importantly - reassure her that she was not to blame.
I almost have chills when I think about how all of this came together. As dreadful as these circumstance are, I can't help but, when I think about them, marvel how the seemingly unrelated events harmonized. Through the discouraging day of bottomless frustration, an evening of tears, then loving support and suggestions, a morning of furious searching and information-gathering, and then - right when it was needed - hope. Beautiful hope.
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
Peace be with you, S.
While I try, in this blog, to focus on the positive things that I see in my clients, I feel moved to share a somewhat negative thing that happened last week. One of our clients, S, killed himself. This was his third attempt. I don't know how; one of my co-workers found him when she went to take his medication to him.
While this, in itself, is tragic and devastating (there were many tears flowing around the office that day), out of respect for S, I would like to talk a little bit about him, remembering him.
S first came into my day program after months of outreach from the mobile team establishing a rapport with him on the street. He came to us extremely delusional with symptoms untreated before he came into my center. For the first several weeks, he wouldn't communicate with any people but the mobile outreach team. He actively conversed, however, with the voices in his head, in all volumes. He frightened a number of the clients, and even offended one or two of them when he imagine himself to be God, as he did pretty regularly. Most of the clients, however, could see that he was not well, and they treated him gently. It was really sweet to see them, as tough as they tried to pretend they were, treat someone who was hurting with a kind of quiet care and respect.
When S became extremely loud, one of the workers would go to him, point out his volume, and ask him to lower his voice. When I first began doing this, as soon as I approached him, he would avert his eyes. He would lower his voice, but only for a minute. The longer I knew him, however, the more comfortable he became, and he began to look me in the eye and smile. After a little longer, he began to hold small conversations with me.
He became of client of our Assertive Community Treatment team, which houses chronically homeless and severaly ill clients and then follows them every day or so, making sure they take their meds and go to the doctor. S had only been with them a few months, and then this happened. My agency has a number of burial plots for clients who do not have family so they can be buried with dignity, and S will receive one of those.
When I think about his passing, I'm a little sad, of course, because his was such a simple and sweet spirit. But it was also tortured, and I like to think of him now completely and finally at peace.
While this, in itself, is tragic and devastating (there were many tears flowing around the office that day), out of respect for S, I would like to talk a little bit about him, remembering him.
S first came into my day program after months of outreach from the mobile team establishing a rapport with him on the street. He came to us extremely delusional with symptoms untreated before he came into my center. For the first several weeks, he wouldn't communicate with any people but the mobile outreach team. He actively conversed, however, with the voices in his head, in all volumes. He frightened a number of the clients, and even offended one or two of them when he imagine himself to be God, as he did pretty regularly. Most of the clients, however, could see that he was not well, and they treated him gently. It was really sweet to see them, as tough as they tried to pretend they were, treat someone who was hurting with a kind of quiet care and respect.
When S became extremely loud, one of the workers would go to him, point out his volume, and ask him to lower his voice. When I first began doing this, as soon as I approached him, he would avert his eyes. He would lower his voice, but only for a minute. The longer I knew him, however, the more comfortable he became, and he began to look me in the eye and smile. After a little longer, he began to hold small conversations with me.
He became of client of our Assertive Community Treatment team, which houses chronically homeless and severaly ill clients and then follows them every day or so, making sure they take their meds and go to the doctor. S had only been with them a few months, and then this happened. My agency has a number of burial plots for clients who do not have family so they can be buried with dignity, and S will receive one of those.
When I think about his passing, I'm a little sad, of course, because his was such a simple and sweet spirit. But it was also tortured, and I like to think of him now completely and finally at peace.
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
Reverend Bobo and Bubblegum
Today I saw one of the more colorful characters I’ve known from my day program. He’s working with our intensive community treatment team, which is the only way the wonder of his current stability is possible – he’s been housed through my agency for over a year. He takes medication regularly, he bathes regularly, and when one asks him a question, he answers in a way that makes sense. This is a far cry from the years he spent on the "hobo trail." He was rarely clean and a hopeless hoarder, saving papers and food, empty cups and trinkets in an old backpack. The only clothes he owned were those on his back - and he had several outfits on his back.
His very name is truly unique. I won't give the actual name here to protect his identity (in the small chance that you'd know him) but it's akin to Empee. As a testament to his then untreated mental illness, however, some days he wanted to be called Earl, and sometimes he wanted to be called Reverend Bobo. Unfortunately, one couldn't tell who he was on which day, and he got very angry when we called him incorrectly.
Not only did he adjust his own name, but also other people's names. He frequently called people Bubblegum, particularly when he was frustrated. "I put that there for a reason, bubblegum.." He had trouble with my name for awhile, and so he just called me Gracie. I don’t know how he got Gracie or why, but I was sad when he stopped. Whether this was due to his personality or mental illness, I don't know.
One thing that I do believe is a testament to his mental illness is that when one asked him a question about how he was or the status of his meetings, he would answer a different question. Very frequently, the answer was to remind us that Darth Vader was his father. Sometimes, though, the answer was an angry outburst, and no amount of soothing voices or corrected names could fix it - he was excused for the day.
The first time that he revealed to me how sweet and gentle person he is was when one of our staff members was leaving. This made him very nervous and anxious, but he really didn't have the words to communicate how he was feeling. Instead, like a frightened child staying near their parents, he hung close to different staff members throughout the day. My turn was during lunch. He hovered around me, almost wringing his hands, and frequently reminded me that she was leaving. Though he was sad, his reaction was touching. He was handling it the best way he knew how.
I remember the day that President Obama was inaugurated – my center has a big screen TV and we let people stay after lunch to watch it. The whole center was darkened, and all of the clients were arranged in a half circle around the TV to watch. Despite the unusually large number of people in the room, they were hushed to hear the television commentator announce the different parts of the ceremony. When they announced a performance by Yoyo Ma, Empee’s voice piped up from the quiet darkness to announce, “Yoyo Ma’s my cousin!”
While I miss Reverend Bobo and Bubblegum, it was nice to be able to hug him hello today and to really be with Empee.
Epilogue: When I was working on a project in my practicum, I was working with prominent members of the faith community, and did, in fact, meet a Reverend Bobo. I spoke with other people about Empee, and they suggested that he knew Reverend Bobo, who is extremely involved in his community. And all this time, I thought it was a delusion...
His very name is truly unique. I won't give the actual name here to protect his identity (in the small chance that you'd know him) but it's akin to Empee. As a testament to his then untreated mental illness, however, some days he wanted to be called Earl, and sometimes he wanted to be called Reverend Bobo. Unfortunately, one couldn't tell who he was on which day, and he got very angry when we called him incorrectly.
Not only did he adjust his own name, but also other people's names. He frequently called people Bubblegum, particularly when he was frustrated. "I put that there for a reason, bubblegum.." He had trouble with my name for awhile, and so he just called me Gracie. I don’t know how he got Gracie or why, but I was sad when he stopped. Whether this was due to his personality or mental illness, I don't know.
One thing that I do believe is a testament to his mental illness is that when one asked him a question about how he was or the status of his meetings, he would answer a different question. Very frequently, the answer was to remind us that Darth Vader was his father. Sometimes, though, the answer was an angry outburst, and no amount of soothing voices or corrected names could fix it - he was excused for the day.
The first time that he revealed to me how sweet and gentle person he is was when one of our staff members was leaving. This made him very nervous and anxious, but he really didn't have the words to communicate how he was feeling. Instead, like a frightened child staying near their parents, he hung close to different staff members throughout the day. My turn was during lunch. He hovered around me, almost wringing his hands, and frequently reminded me that she was leaving. Though he was sad, his reaction was touching. He was handling it the best way he knew how.
I remember the day that President Obama was inaugurated – my center has a big screen TV and we let people stay after lunch to watch it. The whole center was darkened, and all of the clients were arranged in a half circle around the TV to watch. Despite the unusually large number of people in the room, they were hushed to hear the television commentator announce the different parts of the ceremony. When they announced a performance by Yoyo Ma, Empee’s voice piped up from the quiet darkness to announce, “Yoyo Ma’s my cousin!”
While I miss Reverend Bobo and Bubblegum, it was nice to be able to hug him hello today and to really be with Empee.
Epilogue: When I was working on a project in my practicum, I was working with prominent members of the faith community, and did, in fact, meet a Reverend Bobo. I spoke with other people about Empee, and they suggested that he knew Reverend Bobo, who is extremely involved in his community. And all this time, I thought it was a delusion...
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
Another Outsider
One of the occupational hazards of working with the homeless is that I see them no matter where I am. Because, as I like to remind my friends, "The hobo shuffle is the same in every country." My latest international visit took the form of my first cruise in the Caribbean. Before I left, a friend of mine advised me to "take about 20 minutes to feel bad about the opulance and then get over it and have a good time, because its a lot of fun."
As the trip went on, I better understood what she meant. Not only could I pick out the many homeless people on each island, and furthermore, I don't know that I saw a single American face at work on the ship, though I did see plenty of Eastern Europeans and East Asians. On shore, the port area was extremely built up, pandering to the expectations of the "Northern" tourists, but the wealth disparity once one passed the inner circle was immense. I realized how insightful my friend's advice during the many moments of discomfort I felt. It raised a number of questions for me, the most important being: how does my life as a privileged American contribute to this disparity?
This ties into another significant aspect of my future a requirement for my Master's program in Social Work. I will need to do a practicum, or internship, however, and trying to select the site is a challenge. I know that I would like to work in poverty, homelessness, and economic equality, and in order to do this effectively, I've thought that I needed to get outside of my "first world" bubble and see poverty from an outside perspective. Something this past trip showed me, however, is that I will never be able to excape this bubble. There are a number of privileged categories that apply to me: white, educated, Christian, English-speaking, heterosexual. They always will. Even if I go live in community with the underprivileged, I will still be an outsider.
As the trip went on, I better understood what she meant. Not only could I pick out the many homeless people on each island, and furthermore, I don't know that I saw a single American face at work on the ship, though I did see plenty of Eastern Europeans and East Asians. On shore, the port area was extremely built up, pandering to the expectations of the "Northern" tourists, but the wealth disparity once one passed the inner circle was immense. I realized how insightful my friend's advice during the many moments of discomfort I felt. It raised a number of questions for me, the most important being: how does my life as a privileged American contribute to this disparity?
This ties into another significant aspect of my future a requirement for my Master's program in Social Work. I will need to do a practicum, or internship, however, and trying to select the site is a challenge. I know that I would like to work in poverty, homelessness, and economic equality, and in order to do this effectively, I've thought that I needed to get outside of my "first world" bubble and see poverty from an outside perspective. Something this past trip showed me, however, is that I will never be able to excape this bubble. There are a number of privileged categories that apply to me: white, educated, Christian, English-speaking, heterosexual. They always will. Even if I go live in community with the underprivileged, I will still be an outsider.
So instead of becoming like them, as though I'm from that community, perhaps there is another or a better way I can use my gifts, even though I'm an outsider.
Thursday, May 13, 2010
Getting back up
I was present to another miracle today and I was so excited I wanted to share it with you. There was an alcoholic client I had several months ago that cared about a little more than most. I don't know what it is about some people, some of them just sit a little closer to my heart than others. Several months ago, he completely fell off the grid - he lost his job, lost his apartment, and lost contact with everyone he knew. Several clients and the mobile outreach team talked about seeing him once in awhile either passed out in the street or on a bench. He is a good and honest man and a hard worker, and his disappearance bothered staff and clients alike.
He re-appeared on Tuesday, slumped against my building. He had asked for me, and when I went outside to talk to him, he grasped my hand tightly. His face was swollen, his eye was blackened, and his eyelashes, eyebrows, and moustache were all singed from clumsy cigarette-lighting attempts. He was about ready to break, and heartbreakingly wanted to come back to the program, come back to acceptance. I rubbed his back and told him that he had a place with us. I was able to get him up to our facility for lunch. When he started to get sick and we started talking to him about going to the hospital to detox, however, he blanched. "Have you ever been in the hospital?" he asked my co-worker. She said, "What you need is outside of our scope of care - you need medical help." He wasn't open to any offerings of help. "I'll do this myself, get my own scope of care." He stumbled out of the center with promises to return, sober, the next day. The next day, however, he was nowhere to be found, and I was afraid it would be another two months before I saw him again, if I did.
This morning, another client came for me and told me he was outside. I went to him, his face was still puffy, his pupils still tiny black dots, tears already forming in his eyes, his self-loathing written plainly all over his figure, and I took his hand. He had whiskey and soda with him this time, and while he couldn't stay on property with that, I didn't want to send him away. I again brought up the idea of a hospital and pointed out to him that when he tried to sober up on his own, he couldn't. "You can do this again, but right now you need help, and the hospital is the place you go for that." He started talking about what happens when he goes to a hospital, and I said, "I've been in a hospital for four months; I know what it's like. I also know that's where I got better, and that's what you need." He softly agreed to be taken, and I scampered off to find the worker who could take him before he changed his mind. The worker was gone, however, and I had to stay, and suddenly I was faced with a dilemma. I felt terrible sending him away, away from help he needed, away from his willingness to go to the hospital, but he couldn't be around with that alcohol. I told him as much, and sugggested he come back in 30 minutes, lunchtime, for a ride. He said he wanted to do that, but he didn't move. Thinking he wanted to stay, I said, "Or, you can give me that bottle and let me take care of it, and come upstairs with me right now." "No ma'am," he answered firmly, "I'll take care of it." I helped him up, and he shuffled off in his too-big pants and socks (no shoes on), arms full of bottles and a sweater. "I'm going to throw this away," I could hear him tell people as he scooted past them, "I'm going to the hospital." It was ironically cute and laughable and saddening all at once. I was wracked with uncertainty in my decision - did I do the right thing? Would he come back? Did he think I blew him off?
He didn't come back for lunch, but folks told me he was around. About an hour and a half after lunch, he came to the door of my center, arms clear of belongings, shoes on his feet, and said, "I threw that bottle away. I'm ready to go to the hospital."
I could have cried for the many feelings I still have to think about it: relief, love, respect, humility. It's just another thing to love about the job.
He re-appeared on Tuesday, slumped against my building. He had asked for me, and when I went outside to talk to him, he grasped my hand tightly. His face was swollen, his eye was blackened, and his eyelashes, eyebrows, and moustache were all singed from clumsy cigarette-lighting attempts. He was about ready to break, and heartbreakingly wanted to come back to the program, come back to acceptance. I rubbed his back and told him that he had a place with us. I was able to get him up to our facility for lunch. When he started to get sick and we started talking to him about going to the hospital to detox, however, he blanched. "Have you ever been in the hospital?" he asked my co-worker. She said, "What you need is outside of our scope of care - you need medical help." He wasn't open to any offerings of help. "I'll do this myself, get my own scope of care." He stumbled out of the center with promises to return, sober, the next day. The next day, however, he was nowhere to be found, and I was afraid it would be another two months before I saw him again, if I did.
This morning, another client came for me and told me he was outside. I went to him, his face was still puffy, his pupils still tiny black dots, tears already forming in his eyes, his self-loathing written plainly all over his figure, and I took his hand. He had whiskey and soda with him this time, and while he couldn't stay on property with that, I didn't want to send him away. I again brought up the idea of a hospital and pointed out to him that when he tried to sober up on his own, he couldn't. "You can do this again, but right now you need help, and the hospital is the place you go for that." He started talking about what happens when he goes to a hospital, and I said, "I've been in a hospital for four months; I know what it's like. I also know that's where I got better, and that's what you need." He softly agreed to be taken, and I scampered off to find the worker who could take him before he changed his mind. The worker was gone, however, and I had to stay, and suddenly I was faced with a dilemma. I felt terrible sending him away, away from help he needed, away from his willingness to go to the hospital, but he couldn't be around with that alcohol. I told him as much, and sugggested he come back in 30 minutes, lunchtime, for a ride. He said he wanted to do that, but he didn't move. Thinking he wanted to stay, I said, "Or, you can give me that bottle and let me take care of it, and come upstairs with me right now." "No ma'am," he answered firmly, "I'll take care of it." I helped him up, and he shuffled off in his too-big pants and socks (no shoes on), arms full of bottles and a sweater. "I'm going to throw this away," I could hear him tell people as he scooted past them, "I'm going to the hospital." It was ironically cute and laughable and saddening all at once. I was wracked with uncertainty in my decision - did I do the right thing? Would he come back? Did he think I blew him off?
He didn't come back for lunch, but folks told me he was around. About an hour and a half after lunch, he came to the door of my center, arms clear of belongings, shoes on his feet, and said, "I threw that bottle away. I'm ready to go to the hospital."
I could have cried for the many feelings I still have to think about it: relief, love, respect, humility. It's just another thing to love about the job.
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
What it means to be a lady
There's a lady, Shelle, that I have that I've known for a few years. I've seen her when she was "out there," the colloquial term that clients give to being in their active addiction. When I first knew her, she was still actively using and prostituting and had attitude to spare - she would lash out at someone before taking their help. This last time has been different and she's been more earnest about her recovery, and more successful. She hasn't used in over a year, after 20+ years on the street.
After several months of working together, she informed me that she watches me and my other women co-workers. She said, "I don't know what it means to be a lady, but I want to be. I want to learn how to be a lady. I watch all of you, the way you walk or carry yourselves, to see how you do it." She brings that idea up frequently in our one-on-ones as she and I talk about her efforts.
She has an 18 year old daughter who saw her while she was using and has begun to emulate those actions. She is living with a man 20 years her senior, and Shelle has seen her on the streets. She knows what her daughter is doing. For a short time, her daughter was living with her. Shelle remained firm in boundaries she was setting for her home, boundaries that any lady would set, and boundaries that were completely new to her daughter. Shelle did not know how long her daughter would stay, and she was trying to instill them into her daughter in the time that she had. At one point, after her daughter hadn't showered for several days and Shelle said, "It's time for you to take a bath. Ladies bathe themselves, and you're a lady. I know I didn't set that example for you when you were younger, and I was wrong for that, so I'm telling you now these things that I'm learning. You are a lady."
Her daughter left shortly after that interaction, again living with that older man, again living "out there." Shelle is distraught with concern about the best way to help and guilt about past errors. Despite this, however, or perhaps in anticipation of the day that her daughter comes back to her, she consistently strives to set an example of "ladyness," while simultaneously learning what it means to be a lady. The changes have been remarkable, and it's a blessing to be with her as she learns these new things. It's also profound to see her put faith in the hope that, though she can't see the effects of her choices now, little changes she makes will reap great rewards. This faith, I think, is one of the cornerstones of the definition of a lady.
After several months of working together, she informed me that she watches me and my other women co-workers. She said, "I don't know what it means to be a lady, but I want to be. I want to learn how to be a lady. I watch all of you, the way you walk or carry yourselves, to see how you do it." She brings that idea up frequently in our one-on-ones as she and I talk about her efforts.
She has an 18 year old daughter who saw her while she was using and has begun to emulate those actions. She is living with a man 20 years her senior, and Shelle has seen her on the streets. She knows what her daughter is doing. For a short time, her daughter was living with her. Shelle remained firm in boundaries she was setting for her home, boundaries that any lady would set, and boundaries that were completely new to her daughter. Shelle did not know how long her daughter would stay, and she was trying to instill them into her daughter in the time that she had. At one point, after her daughter hadn't showered for several days and Shelle said, "It's time for you to take a bath. Ladies bathe themselves, and you're a lady. I know I didn't set that example for you when you were younger, and I was wrong for that, so I'm telling you now these things that I'm learning. You are a lady."
Her daughter left shortly after that interaction, again living with that older man, again living "out there." Shelle is distraught with concern about the best way to help and guilt about past errors. Despite this, however, or perhaps in anticipation of the day that her daughter comes back to her, she consistently strives to set an example of "ladyness," while simultaneously learning what it means to be a lady. The changes have been remarkable, and it's a blessing to be with her as she learns these new things. It's also profound to see her put faith in the hope that, though she can't see the effects of her choices now, little changes she makes will reap great rewards. This faith, I think, is one of the cornerstones of the definition of a lady.
Saturday, April 17, 2010
Black Boots
I was at work one weekend when a former client dropped in. Nida (not her real name) was a chronically homeless addict with two sons in prison, and her time with my program was the first time that she was truly serious about her recovery. She has an incredibly humble spirit, works extremely hard, and its precious to be with her as she discovers this world sober. It's much the way I imagine a parent would feel to watch their children make discoveries.
She and I were catching up on her job and her upcoming move from transitional housing into her own apartment when a yellow-shirted woman approached me for a pair of shoes from the downstairs clothing room. It was a Saturday, and I don't have access to that room on Saturdays. I told Yellow-Shirt as much, and she lamented that she needed them for work that evening. After several minutes of silence, Nida pointed out, "You know, you could get pair of black shoes at Wal-Mart*...it'll only take one bus ticket to get there." A few seconds of silence streched between us as Nida studied Yellow-Shirt's face. "You don't have it, do you?" Yellow-Shirt shook her head. "I can see how bad you want this; I can see it on your face," Nida said, knowing from years on the homeless street. "If I give you $10, will you take it to the store and get shoes?" Yellow-Shirt said yes, and silence fell as Nida weighed the decision. To take the heat off her, I said, "Let me check the back room," referring to a small closet on our floor with toiletry items and socks and underwear.
I knew there weren't any shoes back there, and if there were, they wouldn't be black, but I was absolutely blown away by the "Pay it Forward" gesture that Nida was making. I know she was thinking about people who had helped her when she was struggling, and she may have been making an amend for those she hadn't helped when she was using drugs. I opened the door to the closet and turned on the light. Chills covered me as I spotted one pair of shoes on the low shelf - black boots. I flipped them over to see the size, and they were just right.
Another good thing about the job: miracles happen everyday, and sometimes I get to be present to them.
Epilogue - I still don't know Yellow-Shirt's name, but the shoes are very comfortable and exactly right for the job. She enjoys it and is doing well in it, and she is interviewing for a second job in a few days.
She and I were catching up on her job and her upcoming move from transitional housing into her own apartment when a yellow-shirted woman approached me for a pair of shoes from the downstairs clothing room. It was a Saturday, and I don't have access to that room on Saturdays. I told Yellow-Shirt as much, and she lamented that she needed them for work that evening. After several minutes of silence, Nida pointed out, "You know, you could get pair of black shoes at Wal-Mart*...it'll only take one bus ticket to get there." A few seconds of silence streched between us as Nida studied Yellow-Shirt's face. "You don't have it, do you?" Yellow-Shirt shook her head. "I can see how bad you want this; I can see it on your face," Nida said, knowing from years on the homeless street. "If I give you $10, will you take it to the store and get shoes?" Yellow-Shirt said yes, and silence fell as Nida weighed the decision. To take the heat off her, I said, "Let me check the back room," referring to a small closet on our floor with toiletry items and socks and underwear.
I knew there weren't any shoes back there, and if there were, they wouldn't be black, but I was absolutely blown away by the "Pay it Forward" gesture that Nida was making. I know she was thinking about people who had helped her when she was struggling, and she may have been making an amend for those she hadn't helped when she was using drugs. I opened the door to the closet and turned on the light. Chills covered me as I spotted one pair of shoes on the low shelf - black boots. I flipped them over to see the size, and they were just right.
Another good thing about the job: miracles happen everyday, and sometimes I get to be present to them.
Epilogue - I still don't know Yellow-Shirt's name, but the shoes are very comfortable and exactly right for the job. She enjoys it and is doing well in it, and she is interviewing for a second job in a few days.
*In no way is this an endorsement of Wal-Mart. I'm just sayin'.
Friday, April 9, 2010
Miss Sarah, why me?
One of the religious communities in town offers weekends of reflection and rejuvenation for homeless people in recovery or with mental illness. The folks that go on this weekend are typically chronically homeless and usually forgotten, or when they're considered, it's with distain. During one of these weekend, there are different activities set up to encourage them to think and reflect on the current state of their lives and what they want, as well as have an opportunity to grow spiritually. Every single person to have gone to this event returns with positive feedback and having gotten something from it, if only to feel unconditional love for the first time in their lives.
Several weeks ago, I told one of my clients, Dinky (name has been changed), about the weekend, and because we trust each other, he signed up. As the time has approached, however, he's become more and more anxious about going. Last week, he said he was mostly just confused but by this afternoon, he was truly upset. He couldn't sleep this week and he had a headache. He said, "Miss Sarah, I know this is a good weekend and you recommended me and all, but what if I do something wrong? I've never done anything like this before." He thought for several seconds, and then sat back in his chair. "I just don't know why you recommended me for this. Why me?"
My heart absolutely broke. Dinky is one of the most thoughtful, considerate and honest clients I have. He works hard to know the right thing to do and does his best to do it, even when he doesn't want to, even though he's living on the street. I told him all of this, and as I went on, his body lifted incrementally. By the time I finished, he said, "Really? I'm all of those things?" I assured him he was and that I had faith in his ability. He nodded, a big smile on his face, and said, "Okay."
One of the most special things about my job is that I get to love people. My hope is that the love I show to them, they show to other people.
Several weeks ago, I told one of my clients, Dinky (name has been changed), about the weekend, and because we trust each other, he signed up. As the time has approached, however, he's become more and more anxious about going. Last week, he said he was mostly just confused but by this afternoon, he was truly upset. He couldn't sleep this week and he had a headache. He said, "Miss Sarah, I know this is a good weekend and you recommended me and all, but what if I do something wrong? I've never done anything like this before." He thought for several seconds, and then sat back in his chair. "I just don't know why you recommended me for this. Why me?"
My heart absolutely broke. Dinky is one of the most thoughtful, considerate and honest clients I have. He works hard to know the right thing to do and does his best to do it, even when he doesn't want to, even though he's living on the street. I told him all of this, and as I went on, his body lifted incrementally. By the time I finished, he said, "Really? I'm all of those things?" I assured him he was and that I had faith in his ability. He nodded, a big smile on his face, and said, "Okay."
One of the most special things about my job is that I get to love people. My hope is that the love I show to them, they show to other people.
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