Doctors are seeing a 25% drop in their reimbursement rates from the government to treat Medicare patients. Doctors cannot afford to treat patients for so little reimbursement. Congress passed a measure to move $19 billion from Medicare cuts that would have covered those without insurance back to Medicare to compensate for the Sustainable Growth Rate. The Sustainable Growth Rate is a formula that compensates doctors for the rising costs of healthcare in light of the overall economy. The growth of healthcare costs has lead to Medicare needing to reimburse doctors for more and more money as an incentive to keep treating Medicare patients. The money Congress moved to cover the Medicare costs was originally cut from Medicare and intended to help pay for those who have no health insurance. So despite the government’s best efforts to make us feel cozy with our current medical coverage paid for by citizens’ tax-dollars, there is still the issue that our baby-boomers, who helped fuel the economy that is currently tanking, need to be taken care of with sustainable Medicare. They still need to be covered, and by doctors who do not have to throw up “see you in 6 months” signs at their front doors. So, in an effort to remain in office and popular with the generation with much at stake, legislators and politicians will do what Medicare requires and cover the costs. Grandma won’t have to wait in line and there won’t be “death chambers” with gatekeepers, deciding who lives and who doesn’t. Because lawmakers are doing what they do best: CYA.
So where does this leave the unemployed, the welfare recipient, or the person who assumed he or she would never need to work again because the government covered everything? They are left for the rude awakening (though, it shouldn’t be that rude because after all, America was found on the principal of capitalism: Dirty, dirty capitalism) that their health can’t be left to chance. Low and behold, we find again that the government cannot be entirely trusted, whether you are a baby-boomer who almost had a heart attack worrying that your medical insurance wasn’t going to last, or whether you’re an individual who does not currently have health insurance for whatever reason and you just wanted to try to catch a break with a free government service.
So do yourself a favor, just try. That’s really all anyone can ask of their fellow citizen, right? Try. Please, for the sake of all of us trying to get out of this economic rut, those of us unsure of the future, re-inventing ourselves, making ends meet through whatever means necessary, or whoever you are. Please, for your children who don’t need to grow up thinking the government will always be there to support their best interests. Please try to help yourself any way you can, and give your family the satisfaction of knowing that you, as their leader, didn’t trust in a man or a party that happened to be powerful for 4 years, but in a set of morals that will remain until the end.
Thursday, December 9, 2010
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
Babylon
I'm trying to reconcile the two. Let me describe last night. I went to Revelation, and everything Brandon preached on, everything, had to do with what I'm dealing with as a young professional.
Everyone is telling me to think about the next big step; what would be the best career choice for you given your talents? What can you choose that is most lucrative? What can you pick that will position you to best "move up the ladder?" What type of life do you want for yourself, Ellen? And last night, all I heard was Babylon, the city of demons. And I don't know exactly where that is or how Babylon is going to be destroyed, but I know that those who follow their own selfish ambitions are lost in the fray and miss the plans of the Lord.
I don't want to miss Jesus, above all else.
I don't want to value my car or my townhouse or my job or my boyfriend more than I value Jesus Christ. And everything around me is telling me to create my own future. Be better than the other guy. Scout out the competition and beat it out. And be the best. Never be satisfied with what you have, always want more. And though I'm not a proponent of "settling," I think there's an element to the American Dream that is completely wrong. The "be-the-best-on-your-own" merit goes against the humility and gratitude preached in the Bible. The mentality that one can never have enough, and is always seeking after the next biggest version of material weatlh is wrong. All that wealth will be destroyed, whether its obtained for good, unselfish motivations or not.
I am not trying to tote the message of self-righteousness. But I got caught up in this world of Masters' degrees and wanting something more for myself, and holding on to the possibility that maybe I could have worldly success and Jesus on the side, and I came to the conclusion that I can't. So I need to get to the point where I can say I want Jesus more than anything else. And this is where I become so confused.
Because let me describe my Babylon. Its a world where I give in to all types of temptations and let the rest of my world think I'm living this godly life. I come home, devote some time to the Revelation ministry and have something cool to pad my resume as far as community service goes, and keep going with a masters. Maybe public policy, maybe organization management, maybe project management, but its something that someone has said to me that i should pursue because it'll make me successful. And a husband and family can be the icing on the cake, you know? The hot
commodity that vies for first place among my affections with my career. And maybe I'll fail, but if I succeed? My gosh, I'll be the epitome of independence; I'll be able to say it was all on my own merit, that I didn't get help from anyone (though that, of course, would be a lie) and I'd have all this success that could be placed on a gravestone at the end of the day, ready to burn. I'll have lived a "good" life, then it will be over. And my family will not have been first; I would be a crippled vessel that Jesus might have tried to use but could never plow through the miles of "success" that clouded my view. I'd be useless. The demons would have crippled me as they do in the Screwtape letters, and I won't be able to fulfill the life Jesus had in store for me.
My conundrum is my plans vs. Jesus. I think there's still a huge part of me that's trying to reconcile the calling of God with my boyfriend. I want God to fit both into my life conveniently over the next year and a half so I can get this missions thing out of my system, as if its something that only lasts for a little while, and be ready to anything else, too. Or maybe, if I'm brutally honest, I'm so bored that I'll do anything to occupy myself, even if it means taking off to some foreign country and teaching English and getting a certification that would yet allow me to have a convenient career.
Can I do both? Can I serve both God and myself? Not at all.
Everyone is telling me to think about the next big step; what would be the best career choice for you given your talents? What can you choose that is most lucrative? What can you pick that will position you to best "move up the ladder?" What type of life do you want for yourself, Ellen? And last night, all I heard was Babylon, the city of demons. And I don't know exactly where that is or how Babylon is going to be destroyed, but I know that those who follow their own selfish ambitions are lost in the fray and miss the plans of the Lord.
I don't want to miss Jesus, above all else.
I don't want to value my car or my townhouse or my job or my boyfriend more than I value Jesus Christ. And everything around me is telling me to create my own future. Be better than the other guy. Scout out the competition and beat it out. And be the best. Never be satisfied with what you have, always want more. And though I'm not a proponent of "settling," I think there's an element to the American Dream that is completely wrong. The "be-the-best-on-your-own" merit goes against the humility and gratitude preached in the Bible. The mentality that one can never have enough, and is always seeking after the next biggest version of material weatlh is wrong. All that wealth will be destroyed, whether its obtained for good, unselfish motivations or not.
I am not trying to tote the message of self-righteousness. But I got caught up in this world of Masters' degrees and wanting something more for myself, and holding on to the possibility that maybe I could have worldly success and Jesus on the side, and I came to the conclusion that I can't. So I need to get to the point where I can say I want Jesus more than anything else. And this is where I become so confused.
Because let me describe my Babylon. Its a world where I give in to all types of temptations and let the rest of my world think I'm living this godly life. I come home, devote some time to the Revelation ministry and have something cool to pad my resume as far as community service goes, and keep going with a masters. Maybe public policy, maybe organization management, maybe project management, but its something that someone has said to me that i should pursue because it'll make me successful. And a husband and family can be the icing on the cake, you know? The hot
commodity that vies for first place among my affections with my career. And maybe I'll fail, but if I succeed? My gosh, I'll be the epitome of independence; I'll be able to say it was all on my own merit, that I didn't get help from anyone (though that, of course, would be a lie) and I'd have all this success that could be placed on a gravestone at the end of the day, ready to burn. I'll have lived a "good" life, then it will be over. And my family will not have been first; I would be a crippled vessel that Jesus might have tried to use but could never plow through the miles of "success" that clouded my view. I'd be useless. The demons would have crippled me as they do in the Screwtape letters, and I won't be able to fulfill the life Jesus had in store for me.
My conundrum is my plans vs. Jesus. I think there's still a huge part of me that's trying to reconcile the calling of God with my boyfriend. I want God to fit both into my life conveniently over the next year and a half so I can get this missions thing out of my system, as if its something that only lasts for a little while, and be ready to anything else, too. Or maybe, if I'm brutally honest, I'm so bored that I'll do anything to occupy myself, even if it means taking off to some foreign country and teaching English and getting a certification that would yet allow me to have a convenient career.
Can I do both? Can I serve both God and myself? Not at all.
Sunday, October 24, 2010
Spiritual Gifts Test
So, Top 3:
1. Poverty (voluntary)
Poverty (voluntary) - The special ability God gives to some to purposely live an impoverished lifestyle to serve and aid others with their material resources.
The special ability that God gives to some members of the body of Christ to renounce material comfort and luxury and adopt a personal lifestyle equivalent to those living at the poverty level in a given society in order to serve God more effectively.
People with this gift:
- will often choose to live among people who are considered poverty-stricken
- live at a poverty level although they have the means to live at a higher standard
- choose this lifestyle in order to minister more effectively to people through identification.
1 Corinthians 13:1-3
2 Corinthians 8:9
Acts 2:44-45
Acts 4:32-35
2. Mercy / Compassion
Mercy / Compassion (Serving Gift) - The special gift whereby the Spirit enables certain Christians to feel exceptional empathy and compassion for those who are suffering (physically, mentally, or emotionally) so as to feel genuine sympathy for their misery, speaking words of compassion, but more so caring for them with acts of love that help alleviate their distress.
The divine enablement to cheerfully and practically help those who are suffering or are in need by putting compassion into action.
People with this gift:
- focus upon alleviating the sources of pain or discomfort in suffering people
- address the needs of the lonely and forgotten
- express love, grace, and dignity to those facing hardships and crisis
- serve in difficult or unsightly circumstances and do so cheerfully
- concern themselves with individual or social issues that oppress people.
Romans 12:6-8
Luke 7:12-15
Luke 10:30-37
Matthew 20:29-34
Matthew 25:34-40
Mark 9:41
Matthew 5:7
3. Helps / Serving
Helps / Serving (Serving Gift) - The gift that enables a believer to work gladly behind the scenes in order that God's work is fulfilled. The special ability God gives to some to serve the church in a supporting roll or to invest their talents in the life and ministry of other members of the body enabling them to increase their effectiveness.
The divine enablement to accomplish practical and necessary tasks which free-up, support, and meet the needs of others.
People with this gift:
- serve behind the scenes whenever needed to support the gifts and ministries of others (without having to be asked)
- see the tangible and practical things to be done and enjoy doing them
- sense God's purpose and pleasure in meeting every day responsibilities
- attach spiritual value to practical service
- enjoy knowing that they are freeing up others to do what God has called them to do.
- would rather do a job than find someone else to do it.
1 Corinthians 12:28-31
Romans 16:1-2
Acts 9:36
Mark 15:40-41
Galatians 6:2
Romans 12:6-8
1 Peter 4:11
Philippians 2:19-23
Luke 22:24-27
John 13:14
1. Poverty (voluntary)
Poverty (voluntary) - The special ability God gives to some to purposely live an impoverished lifestyle to serve and aid others with their material resources.
The special ability that God gives to some members of the body of Christ to renounce material comfort and luxury and adopt a personal lifestyle equivalent to those living at the poverty level in a given society in order to serve God more effectively.
People with this gift:
- will often choose to live among people who are considered poverty-stricken
- live at a poverty level although they have the means to live at a higher standard
- choose this lifestyle in order to minister more effectively to people through identification.
1 Corinthians 13:1-3
2 Corinthians 8:9
Acts 2:44-45
Acts 4:32-35
2. Mercy / Compassion
Mercy / Compassion (Serving Gift) - The special gift whereby the Spirit enables certain Christians to feel exceptional empathy and compassion for those who are suffering (physically, mentally, or emotionally) so as to feel genuine sympathy for their misery, speaking words of compassion, but more so caring for them with acts of love that help alleviate their distress.
The divine enablement to cheerfully and practically help those who are suffering or are in need by putting compassion into action.
People with this gift:
- focus upon alleviating the sources of pain or discomfort in suffering people
- address the needs of the lonely and forgotten
- express love, grace, and dignity to those facing hardships and crisis
- serve in difficult or unsightly circumstances and do so cheerfully
- concern themselves with individual or social issues that oppress people.
Romans 12:6-8
Luke 7:12-15
Luke 10:30-37
Matthew 20:29-34
Matthew 25:34-40
Mark 9:41
Matthew 5:7
3. Helps / Serving
Helps / Serving (Serving Gift) - The gift that enables a believer to work gladly behind the scenes in order that God's work is fulfilled. The special ability God gives to some to serve the church in a supporting roll or to invest their talents in the life and ministry of other members of the body enabling them to increase their effectiveness.
The divine enablement to accomplish practical and necessary tasks which free-up, support, and meet the needs of others.
People with this gift:
- serve behind the scenes whenever needed to support the gifts and ministries of others (without having to be asked)
- see the tangible and practical things to be done and enjoy doing them
- sense God's purpose and pleasure in meeting every day responsibilities
- attach spiritual value to practical service
- enjoy knowing that they are freeing up others to do what God has called them to do.
- would rather do a job than find someone else to do it.
1 Corinthians 12:28-31
Romans 16:1-2
Acts 9:36
Mark 15:40-41
Galatians 6:2
Romans 12:6-8
1 Peter 4:11
Philippians 2:19-23
Luke 22:24-27
John 13:14
Freedom
I want to always remember today. Like a song in my head that brings back pleasant memories every time I sing it.
Today in church, there was something about the message that made me want to be that Christ-follower, made me want to live for Jesus boldly. Cling to Him and trust Him like He's the only thing that makes my life worth it. And at the end of the sermon, Brandon asked us to close our eyes and inquire whether or not God was calling us to the mission field. So I did. And I felt like a niave child, asking her dad if she could run around in the woods, completely unaware that it was filled with wolves. But I do know. And I still asked my Lord and He said "yes." So when I wanted to go to India after graduation, that wasn't a fluke, only now He's given me a church that confirmed it, and a job where I can save for it and get out of debt while I'm waiting. Ha, and maybe its not India, maybe its a mission field right around the corner with the college ministry.
So I cried when i drove home, because all the desires that have been ingrained in my soul, planted in my DNA have grown into this. Wanting to be a missionary as a kid, reading about the nations as a child, and praying for a different country every night. God grew me into this. I was created for this purpose. I was created to serve a God in ways that I can't imagine on my own. And I know they do not involve the corporate world, the "American Dream," or anything else that chases success and tries to place God on the side. I find it harder and harder to buy into that lifestyle. There's never been a part of me that cared so much about money, but being here in Northern Virginia and realizing I don't want a porch, or a huge house that I have to decorate, or the social pressure of planning parties to impress people I hardly know, or the knowledge that I have to carve away parts of myself to get ahead and succeed.
God created me to be an incredibly sensitive person. I try not to show it, but I feel so much. I take a lot of things more personally than I should. I empathize easily. I trust easily. I am not that smart. I know no foreign languages, and there are times when I have to review a concept over and over before I understand. I have no missionary training and hardly any experience. I zone out sometimes and miss instructions.
But I break over Jesus Christ. I am passionate and in love with the sweet gospel that saved me when I could literally do nothing to save myself. I know that Jesus Christ saved sinners like me and has plans for me that glorify Him. I know that He is calling me to the mission field and will provide a way.
The day. Right. So I'm driving to lunch with Brandon and Dave Melander, and on the way, all these things are going through my head about being a missionary, but through it all, I have this unbelievable peace. Like when you go to the doctor and he tells you to lower your cholesterol and you realize you have to change a lot of things about your diet and exercise habits but in the end, you'll go back and the doctor will smile proudly and say "well done, you're healthier!" And God is the Great Physician, and on that car ride to Ruby Tuesday, He's in the car with me again, like He was so many times before when I desperately needed to talk to Him, and told me that He's proud of me. "I know this won't be easy. I know people will probably look at you funny but this is for my glory and the plans in your life are strictly so I can bring glory to myself. So you are doing the right thing and in the end, it will all be worth it."
But God is more important than a relationship, my life in Northern Virginia, my "career," my desire to get a masters, and any other plans I may have for the next few years, God's call trumps them.
I came home and wrote a letter to my parents. The new testament church picked up and left all the time to go spread the gospel. I am so happy right now, so peaceful. Like this thought, this plan, these ideas are why God made me the planner and dreamer that I am. This is why. Jesus loves unconditionally and fulfills like we didn't know we even needed satisfaction. But oh, how we do. How I long to be satisfied in my Savior. How I desire more than any love, to love my Father in Heaven first and live for Him. My Savior gives me the strength every day to murder my old self. To slash, stab, whip, and crucify brutally the grip of sin that causes Ellen to be less than I was created to be. HE wants better for me because the only reason I am allowed to live right now is to bring Him glory. I am alive because God isn't through glorifying Himself through my life yet. And my life has so far to go.
I'm so excited about clinging to Jesus. I'm so excited that I've given my time over to Him and the struggle of holding onto it seems so unimportant. I'm glad to learn from people who've gone before, who are wise and whom I can invest in their thoughts.
I'm glad there's more than this American Dream.
I'm thankful for the cross, for the testimony He's given me. I'm thankful for the JDMS and Community Connections, for Emmanuel Baptist Church. Im thankful for a family that raised me to pray for the nations. I can't wait to raise my children that way; to live without the strains of the world's expectations with a husband who loves the Lord more than me, with a child that I can pray for every night like my Dad prayed for my sisters and I. I want to trust God with my husband, knowing He's all we have. I want to live fearlessly, desperately in love with Jesus. Maybe I wasn't created to be married. That's ok. Maybe I'll be single and be a missionary for the rest of my life. All I know is this sweet peace, that there's nothing else to prove. That Jesus called me to this and I have every intention of seeking it until it's time to go.
One more thing. I thought about death today. Quite a bit, actually. It's striking to think that the only reason I'm breathing is because the potential still exists for my life to glorify God. Its stunning that I could die and be with Jesus in the next moment. I am not scared of death. There are times when I wouldn't mind dying, just to be in Heaven and away from Earth. Not suicide by any means, but to be with Jesus. He is worth it. This calling is worth it. And the there's no part of me that feels fear.
Today in church, there was something about the message that made me want to be that Christ-follower, made me want to live for Jesus boldly. Cling to Him and trust Him like He's the only thing that makes my life worth it. And at the end of the sermon, Brandon asked us to close our eyes and inquire whether or not God was calling us to the mission field. So I did. And I felt like a niave child, asking her dad if she could run around in the woods, completely unaware that it was filled with wolves. But I do know. And I still asked my Lord and He said "yes." So when I wanted to go to India after graduation, that wasn't a fluke, only now He's given me a church that confirmed it, and a job where I can save for it and get out of debt while I'm waiting. Ha, and maybe its not India, maybe its a mission field right around the corner with the college ministry.
So I cried when i drove home, because all the desires that have been ingrained in my soul, planted in my DNA have grown into this. Wanting to be a missionary as a kid, reading about the nations as a child, and praying for a different country every night. God grew me into this. I was created for this purpose. I was created to serve a God in ways that I can't imagine on my own. And I know they do not involve the corporate world, the "American Dream," or anything else that chases success and tries to place God on the side. I find it harder and harder to buy into that lifestyle. There's never been a part of me that cared so much about money, but being here in Northern Virginia and realizing I don't want a porch, or a huge house that I have to decorate, or the social pressure of planning parties to impress people I hardly know, or the knowledge that I have to carve away parts of myself to get ahead and succeed.
God created me to be an incredibly sensitive person. I try not to show it, but I feel so much. I take a lot of things more personally than I should. I empathize easily. I trust easily. I am not that smart. I know no foreign languages, and there are times when I have to review a concept over and over before I understand. I have no missionary training and hardly any experience. I zone out sometimes and miss instructions.
But I break over Jesus Christ. I am passionate and in love with the sweet gospel that saved me when I could literally do nothing to save myself. I know that Jesus Christ saved sinners like me and has plans for me that glorify Him. I know that He is calling me to the mission field and will provide a way.
The day. Right. So I'm driving to lunch with Brandon and Dave Melander, and on the way, all these things are going through my head about being a missionary, but through it all, I have this unbelievable peace. Like when you go to the doctor and he tells you to lower your cholesterol and you realize you have to change a lot of things about your diet and exercise habits but in the end, you'll go back and the doctor will smile proudly and say "well done, you're healthier!" And God is the Great Physician, and on that car ride to Ruby Tuesday, He's in the car with me again, like He was so many times before when I desperately needed to talk to Him, and told me that He's proud of me. "I know this won't be easy. I know people will probably look at you funny but this is for my glory and the plans in your life are strictly so I can bring glory to myself. So you are doing the right thing and in the end, it will all be worth it."
But God is more important than a relationship, my life in Northern Virginia, my "career," my desire to get a masters, and any other plans I may have for the next few years, God's call trumps them.
I came home and wrote a letter to my parents. The new testament church picked up and left all the time to go spread the gospel. I am so happy right now, so peaceful. Like this thought, this plan, these ideas are why God made me the planner and dreamer that I am. This is why. Jesus loves unconditionally and fulfills like we didn't know we even needed satisfaction. But oh, how we do. How I long to be satisfied in my Savior. How I desire more than any love, to love my Father in Heaven first and live for Him. My Savior gives me the strength every day to murder my old self. To slash, stab, whip, and crucify brutally the grip of sin that causes Ellen to be less than I was created to be. HE wants better for me because the only reason I am allowed to live right now is to bring Him glory. I am alive because God isn't through glorifying Himself through my life yet. And my life has so far to go.
I'm so excited about clinging to Jesus. I'm so excited that I've given my time over to Him and the struggle of holding onto it seems so unimportant. I'm glad to learn from people who've gone before, who are wise and whom I can invest in their thoughts.
I'm glad there's more than this American Dream.
I'm thankful for the cross, for the testimony He's given me. I'm thankful for the JDMS and Community Connections, for Emmanuel Baptist Church. Im thankful for a family that raised me to pray for the nations. I can't wait to raise my children that way; to live without the strains of the world's expectations with a husband who loves the Lord more than me, with a child that I can pray for every night like my Dad prayed for my sisters and I. I want to trust God with my husband, knowing He's all we have. I want to live fearlessly, desperately in love with Jesus. Maybe I wasn't created to be married. That's ok. Maybe I'll be single and be a missionary for the rest of my life. All I know is this sweet peace, that there's nothing else to prove. That Jesus called me to this and I have every intention of seeking it until it's time to go.
One more thing. I thought about death today. Quite a bit, actually. It's striking to think that the only reason I'm breathing is because the potential still exists for my life to glorify God. Its stunning that I could die and be with Jesus in the next moment. I am not scared of death. There are times when I wouldn't mind dying, just to be in Heaven and away from Earth. Not suicide by any means, but to be with Jesus. He is worth it. This calling is worth it. And the there's no part of me that feels fear.
Saturday, October 23, 2010
Awesome Day
I'm so tired.
Its 1 am but today was the best kind of day.
I woke up to nothing planned and came home to my neighbors (the guys' house on the corner) chanting "birthday sex!" But not to me, luckily.
Made pumpkin bread from a homemade pumpkin recipe from real pumpkins I bought today. Note to self - fall in Northern Virginia is stunning.
Paid rent. Caught up on all bills.
Hung out with Corinn David. Wonderful, sweet Corinn David. She is probably close to perfect.
DC lights. Charles and Mark. RS8s. or RX8s. Whatever.
Fuddruckers. Caps lose, but DC is electric nonetheless.
Starbucks. Pumpkin Spice Latte.
Wonderful stories about Europe while waiting 30 minutes (yes DC, your transportation sucks) for the metro.
WWII Memorial.
Washington Monument.
Air Force One. Whatup Mr. President.
Missing Home. Always.
Its 1 am but today was the best kind of day.
I woke up to nothing planned and came home to my neighbors (the guys' house on the corner) chanting "birthday sex!" But not to me, luckily.
Made pumpkin bread from a homemade pumpkin recipe from real pumpkins I bought today. Note to self - fall in Northern Virginia is stunning.
Paid rent. Caught up on all bills.
Hung out with Corinn David. Wonderful, sweet Corinn David. She is probably close to perfect.
DC lights. Charles and Mark. RS8s. or RX8s. Whatever.
Fuddruckers. Caps lose, but DC is electric nonetheless.
Starbucks. Pumpkin Spice Latte.
Wonderful stories about Europe while waiting 30 minutes (yes DC, your transportation sucks) for the metro.
WWII Memorial.
Washington Monument.
Air Force One. Whatup Mr. President.
Missing Home. Always.
Thursday, October 21, 2010
"How is it you walk in those heels?"
So I get on the elevator this morning. Still sleepy, but still got here on time. There's a woman who's got dyed blonde hair and the wrinkles on her face don't match up with the chic outfit. And there's a smiling Asian man, going gray, happy, smiling to himself. She's trying to be something she's not and he's embracing everything he is. I'm watching their transaction and I feel like I'm somewhere in the middle, trying so hard to cling to who I am now and not transition into someone who tricks herself into existing as a different person.
The Asian man is grinning and she gives him an acknowledgment smile. Its forced, like she's trying to flick an ant off her diet drink. He doesn't notice, and if he notices, he doesn't seem to care.
"How is it you walk in those heels?" What an innocent question. What a kind person. She doesn't even make eye contact, doesn't even turn around to almost make eye contact, she just stares at the elevator doors, willing them to open as she answers as quickly as possible: "Just do."
"Oh. Ahhaha. Well." His stop arrives. "Have a nice day." He looks at me too. In the eye. "You too!" I reply, probably too enthusiastically. She just fake-smiles again. I want to slug her.
But then its my stop and I get off, fake-smile at her, and go on about my day.
The Asian man is grinning and she gives him an acknowledgment smile. Its forced, like she's trying to flick an ant off her diet drink. He doesn't notice, and if he notices, he doesn't seem to care.
"How is it you walk in those heels?" What an innocent question. What a kind person. She doesn't even make eye contact, doesn't even turn around to almost make eye contact, she just stares at the elevator doors, willing them to open as she answers as quickly as possible: "Just do."
"Oh. Ahhaha. Well." His stop arrives. "Have a nice day." He looks at me too. In the eye. "You too!" I reply, probably too enthusiastically. She just fake-smiles again. I want to slug her.
But then its my stop and I get off, fake-smile at her, and go on about my day.
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
Side notes
I was just described as "105 lb-Ellen."
I am currently writing a statement from Tom to Governor McDonnell. Realizing I have a whole new appreciation for SpellCheck.
Last night, I randomly remembered that I was Ginger Spice for Halloween last year. That won't be happening this year. Need to find a good Halloween costume.
Today I got a new chair. The first chair, though it was comfortable, didn't have arms. This chair has arms, but isn't nearly as comfortable. Dave just walked in and I told him to be careful about the chair-buttons, b/c I've heard they randomly flip you around and may cause contortion. He responds with "Maybe I like punishment." Weird. If there's one thing I can't complain about back at Community Connections, it was the fact that I had a nice chair. It was comfortable, and it had arms, and I'm sure they didn't pay more than $20 for it. Too bad I was too depressed at the time to notice.
Sleepy I am.
I finished the draft statement. My boss is adamant about putting a statement through to the governor, and as seemingly unpopular or alone in this he seems to be, he's still going to do it. And I really admire that about him, seems to be an attribute of a real leader. I feel badly that no one, especially the Congressional contacts, have gotten back to him. I wonder why that is. Probably because in their supporting a statement that re-vamps the workplace, people will have to commit to spending money. And spending money is something that no one likes to do right now. It's quite unpopular, even if you're funding programs that will give you a solid Return on Investment later on down the road.
The way I see it, if Va's lacking the technical skills to push forward with a successful workforce, then the small business leaders need to step up and say "Not only will it benefit us, but it will benefit you as well. Not only will our workforce expand beyond 4-year liberal arts background that produce philosophical dummies (such as myself), but we won't have to depend so much on temp agencies. We can hire the workers here in our home state, and help the workforce develop here rather than go outside of Va to meet workforce needs." And those needs are the STEM skills. The science and technology and engineering and math skills that are always the hard classes, always the first to go once you've met those core requirements. I wish more than anything that I had a math mind, that I could look at a math problem and figure out the answer.
Unfortunately my head is filled with theories that I don't get to use right now; I'd rather replace those theories with useful skills I could learn. I can re-invent myself. There are times when I feel like I have to; I can't stay here in a scheduler position forever.
I am currently writing a statement from Tom to Governor McDonnell. Realizing I have a whole new appreciation for SpellCheck.
Last night, I randomly remembered that I was Ginger Spice for Halloween last year. That won't be happening this year. Need to find a good Halloween costume.
Today I got a new chair. The first chair, though it was comfortable, didn't have arms. This chair has arms, but isn't nearly as comfortable. Dave just walked in and I told him to be careful about the chair-buttons, b/c I've heard they randomly flip you around and may cause contortion. He responds with "Maybe I like punishment." Weird. If there's one thing I can't complain about back at Community Connections, it was the fact that I had a nice chair. It was comfortable, and it had arms, and I'm sure they didn't pay more than $20 for it. Too bad I was too depressed at the time to notice.
Sleepy I am.
I finished the draft statement. My boss is adamant about putting a statement through to the governor, and as seemingly unpopular or alone in this he seems to be, he's still going to do it. And I really admire that about him, seems to be an attribute of a real leader. I feel badly that no one, especially the Congressional contacts, have gotten back to him. I wonder why that is. Probably because in their supporting a statement that re-vamps the workplace, people will have to commit to spending money. And spending money is something that no one likes to do right now. It's quite unpopular, even if you're funding programs that will give you a solid Return on Investment later on down the road.
The way I see it, if Va's lacking the technical skills to push forward with a successful workforce, then the small business leaders need to step up and say "Not only will it benefit us, but it will benefit you as well. Not only will our workforce expand beyond 4-year liberal arts background that produce philosophical dummies (such as myself), but we won't have to depend so much on temp agencies. We can hire the workers here in our home state, and help the workforce develop here rather than go outside of Va to meet workforce needs." And those needs are the STEM skills. The science and technology and engineering and math skills that are always the hard classes, always the first to go once you've met those core requirements. I wish more than anything that I had a math mind, that I could look at a math problem and figure out the answer.
Unfortunately my head is filled with theories that I don't get to use right now; I'd rather replace those theories with useful skills I could learn. I can re-invent myself. There are times when I feel like I have to; I can't stay here in a scheduler position forever.
Don't Worry, Baby.
I'm trying so hard not to be snappy with people. Dad told me he had a prostate exam and might have to have surgery, as the doctors aren't sure whether or not its benign. I can't really imagine anything happening to my dad, and its not easy to just think of this as a routine procedure, like I'm trying to psyche myself into doing. There are times when I want to be home again, safe in the confines of my childhood house with my parents there the way they always have been and I don't have to worry about anything; its all taken care of. Then I wake up to this area called Northern Virginia and I realize that my parents and sisters are somewhere else and their lives don't necessarily include me anymore and I'm here in this waiting room. Waiting for something, though I don't know what it is. I'm waiting for my life to actually start happening, because right now, I feel like I don't have time for anything, to call my parents or actually roast the pumpkin seeds that remind me so much of home. I can chat with my dad in the morning and he tells me not to worry and he's going to be fine because he has my mom and my sisters and I and yet I'm so far away. My time is consumed by work and church, and I wonder what I'm letting slip as I'm grasping onto so much right now.
So Jesus, You know my heart. It's spoiled rotten and so selfish, yet You redeemed it and gave me something better: forgiveness and eternal life I don't deserve. And to say You are "Lord" means to say You own everything in my life, from my job to my house and money to my family to my relationships. And I have to believe that if You set me on Earth to bring You glory, then Lord, Your plans are the best for me. Even if those plans cause me to fear the unknown. You have the power to draw people unto Yourself, and during this time, You're drawing me closer. In having to trust You, Lord, I'm learning that it's useless to be angry with you. You own me. You own my dad and his health. So I trust You with him. God, I don't think there's ever been a daughter who loved and admired her dad as much as I love and admire mine. But You know that. God, You have sat with me and love me more than Dad could, and You've comforted me more than he ever can. So I am asking, if its Your will, that You would make him well. That this would simply be a scare and nothing else. But Lord, if its not, than just hold us all as only You can. I have no right to go to the Owner and Creator of the universe and give You my agenda in place of what You already have planned, so God, please let Your will be done and please keep my dad and family in Your hand. You are all that matters in this life, and the material things of the world are nothing compared to the grace and love flowing from Jesus' blood. Thank You for that blood. Thank You for Your works, as they're great and marvelous. God, whatever happens is of You, and Your works, from creating the universe to destroying it, are great and marvelous. That, in my humanity, is really hard to say, but with my life God, I believe it to be true. Thank You for the love and forgiveness I don't deserve. Thank You that You have plans for my life, works that are great and marvelous that bring You glory, just as the creation of the world brings You glory. Who am I? Lord, I give You my dad, and trust you. I love you my Jesus, my Savior, my Best Friend, my God.
So Jesus, You know my heart. It's spoiled rotten and so selfish, yet You redeemed it and gave me something better: forgiveness and eternal life I don't deserve. And to say You are "Lord" means to say You own everything in my life, from my job to my house and money to my family to my relationships. And I have to believe that if You set me on Earth to bring You glory, then Lord, Your plans are the best for me. Even if those plans cause me to fear the unknown. You have the power to draw people unto Yourself, and during this time, You're drawing me closer. In having to trust You, Lord, I'm learning that it's useless to be angry with you. You own me. You own my dad and his health. So I trust You with him. God, I don't think there's ever been a daughter who loved and admired her dad as much as I love and admire mine. But You know that. God, You have sat with me and love me more than Dad could, and You've comforted me more than he ever can. So I am asking, if its Your will, that You would make him well. That this would simply be a scare and nothing else. But Lord, if its not, than just hold us all as only You can. I have no right to go to the Owner and Creator of the universe and give You my agenda in place of what You already have planned, so God, please let Your will be done and please keep my dad and family in Your hand. You are all that matters in this life, and the material things of the world are nothing compared to the grace and love flowing from Jesus' blood. Thank You for that blood. Thank You for Your works, as they're great and marvelous. God, whatever happens is of You, and Your works, from creating the universe to destroying it, are great and marvelous. That, in my humanity, is really hard to say, but with my life God, I believe it to be true. Thank You for the love and forgiveness I don't deserve. Thank You that You have plans for my life, works that are great and marvelous that bring You glory, just as the creation of the world brings You glory. Who am I? Lord, I give You my dad, and trust you. I love you my Jesus, my Savior, my Best Friend, my God.
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
Life in the Fall
Last night, I carved a pumpkin. This sounds strange, but the vibrancy of the orange made me so happy, like there's something about that color that makes like better.
I was driving down Fairfax County Parkway the other day and the color of the leaves was mezmorizing. I do love this place. I love the outdoors around here, and that fall actually happens; it doesn't go from summer to winter. Fall is beautiful, and there's nothing I enjoy more than colors. I should've been an interior decorator or something. Somthing that would've given me a few more useful life skills than a degree in political science. Though I am so thankful... And I digress.
I carved a face in the pumpkin and it looks goofy, like a child carved it. I cut one of the teeth too thin in the smile and and it fell off. I saved all the seeds; I plan to roast them and eat them for a snack until they're all gone. Reminds me of home, and all the things my mom used to do with the pumpkins we'd carve. I wonder if I'll do those things with my kids. If I'll make home-made pumpkin pie or roast pumpkin seeds or carve faces and paint them and dress them up and take them trick-or-treating. I wonder if I'll be so corporately calloused by the time I have kids that I don't remember how to be a good mother. Ugh. Digressing again.
I named my pumpkin "Kramer," because it looks to ridiculous and the only ridiculous thing that came to mind at 11 pm was Kramer from "Seinfeld." So Kramer the pumpkin is sitting at home, alone, while I'm off blogging about him.
I was driving down Fairfax County Parkway the other day and the color of the leaves was mezmorizing. I do love this place. I love the outdoors around here, and that fall actually happens; it doesn't go from summer to winter. Fall is beautiful, and there's nothing I enjoy more than colors. I should've been an interior decorator or something. Somthing that would've given me a few more useful life skills than a degree in political science. Though I am so thankful... And I digress.
I carved a face in the pumpkin and it looks goofy, like a child carved it. I cut one of the teeth too thin in the smile and and it fell off. I saved all the seeds; I plan to roast them and eat them for a snack until they're all gone. Reminds me of home, and all the things my mom used to do with the pumpkins we'd carve. I wonder if I'll do those things with my kids. If I'll make home-made pumpkin pie or roast pumpkin seeds or carve faces and paint them and dress them up and take them trick-or-treating. I wonder if I'll be so corporately calloused by the time I have kids that I don't remember how to be a good mother. Ugh. Digressing again.
I named my pumpkin "Kramer," because it looks to ridiculous and the only ridiculous thing that came to mind at 11 pm was Kramer from "Seinfeld." So Kramer the pumpkin is sitting at home, alone, while I'm off blogging about him.
Saturday, July 31, 2010
The Valley
I haven't written in the past few weeks for several reasons. I've been depressed; lost over 10 pounds. I have felt like a complete failure in every way and a lot of my clients hit the fan with certain things: Ms. Walker thought I was involved in a shooting in her neighborhood. Ms. Cynthia had another PCP trip and she and her mother literally screamed at each other; her mother told her she wished she'd had an abortion and Cynthia was nothing. Worthless. And I'm there in the apartment and start crying myself. Also worthless. Ms. Dudley needs a lot of rental assistance and cussed me out because she lied on a benevolence application from this church and got denied money. Ms. Brown's CRF director wants her to have a completely new doctor and medical evaluation when really, the woman's a lazy, sometimes cruel person who refuses to help herself. Tarsha Smith's out of food. Rose Shaw's son is stealing money from her and she needs a new payee. Lisa Ruth has to have supervised visits with her daughter and guess who gets to go with her? Oh, and add to that my paperwork has sucked, SUCKED lately and I have felt like I can't do anything right. I've gotten lectures about memorizing my clients NOW, knowing everything about the SSA system NOW, CFSA NOW, court hearings, appeals, food stamps, crisis beds, hospitalizations, authorizations for disclosure of health information, referrals, background checks, probation officers, TANF, SSDI qualifications... the list goes on and on and I've been too overwhelmed to do anything. I've lost 10 pounds since taking this job. I'm 110-113 and haven't been this small since high school.
I am working on the art of shutting my brain off and not allowing certain thoughts to go to far, especially the "you're not good enough" thoughts. Those are the worst, and they get me down every time. The good news is, I got all my treatment plans done PROPERLY this time around, as well as caught up on Lisa Ruth's monthly from MAY when I wasn't even her case manager, as well as caught up on face sheets, as well as made over 100% productivity, as well as got all my client's assessments finished. I'm caught up, and over the weekend, I don't have to think about work at all. That's a huge deal, and I'm thankful for it.
In this job, The Lord is showing me the most incredible, breathtaking things, and through this job, I feel like I'm discovering things for the very first time. Is that strange? I feel like I am knowing myself, allowing myself to really rip off the layers of protection I built so people wouldn't see the real me, but I feel no reason to hide the real me at work, around these people I work with, both in the office as co-workers and outside the office as clients. I am a very emotional person, and I have allowed myself to feel these things so deeply and become so moved over the past 2 months. I weep over tragedy, the injustices and the unfairness of it all, and I weep over joy that prevails. I smile at the people who try, who want nothing more than to get out of the ghetto and live differently, and I wonder at their perseverance.
How incredible the human spirit is. These young boys and girls who get an education and get out are going to become so culture shocked from the white America they'll encounter, and yet white America will never go down to the ghettos and understand where the blacks came from. We'll never appreciate the courage it took to break out of that comfort zone, even if it was the ghetto, and get to another place. And the unsuccessful people without the tenacity to get out? The ones on drugs who have abusive, traumatic histories they can't get past? Those are my clients, and through all the feelings of worthlessness (because I really can't think of a better word to describe the root of this depression), I have been given the great privilege of being used by the Lord to attempt to love people as Jesus would've loved. And seeing people react to that cannot help but move you.
It has to move you.
It has to be something powerful to the point where I won't be satisfied with the everyday status quo. I don't want to be satisfied with it. Even down to the cup of cold water, and supporting my clients when no one else will, loving others like Jesus is literally the hardest thing in the world. The hardest. I don't know how He did it. But It's not easy to love people who are angry at you, so entrenched in Satan's lies that defeat seems inevitable; knowing that and loving them anyway. My flesh tells me its a waste of time, its hopeless, and that nothing will come of it. My flesh tells me I could be doing something else with my life. What sucks is I'm right. But Jesus is greater than the lies my flesh says, and my trust is fully in my Savior who saved me when no one else could.
I am working on the art of shutting my brain off and not allowing certain thoughts to go to far, especially the "you're not good enough" thoughts. Those are the worst, and they get me down every time. The good news is, I got all my treatment plans done PROPERLY this time around, as well as caught up on Lisa Ruth's monthly from MAY when I wasn't even her case manager, as well as caught up on face sheets, as well as made over 100% productivity, as well as got all my client's assessments finished. I'm caught up, and over the weekend, I don't have to think about work at all. That's a huge deal, and I'm thankful for it.
In this job, The Lord is showing me the most incredible, breathtaking things, and through this job, I feel like I'm discovering things for the very first time. Is that strange? I feel like I am knowing myself, allowing myself to really rip off the layers of protection I built so people wouldn't see the real me, but I feel no reason to hide the real me at work, around these people I work with, both in the office as co-workers and outside the office as clients. I am a very emotional person, and I have allowed myself to feel these things so deeply and become so moved over the past 2 months. I weep over tragedy, the injustices and the unfairness of it all, and I weep over joy that prevails. I smile at the people who try, who want nothing more than to get out of the ghetto and live differently, and I wonder at their perseverance.
How incredible the human spirit is. These young boys and girls who get an education and get out are going to become so culture shocked from the white America they'll encounter, and yet white America will never go down to the ghettos and understand where the blacks came from. We'll never appreciate the courage it took to break out of that comfort zone, even if it was the ghetto, and get to another place. And the unsuccessful people without the tenacity to get out? The ones on drugs who have abusive, traumatic histories they can't get past? Those are my clients, and through all the feelings of worthlessness (because I really can't think of a better word to describe the root of this depression), I have been given the great privilege of being used by the Lord to attempt to love people as Jesus would've loved. And seeing people react to that cannot help but move you.
It has to move you.
It has to be something powerful to the point where I won't be satisfied with the everyday status quo. I don't want to be satisfied with it. Even down to the cup of cold water, and supporting my clients when no one else will, loving others like Jesus is literally the hardest thing in the world. The hardest. I don't know how He did it. But It's not easy to love people who are angry at you, so entrenched in Satan's lies that defeat seems inevitable; knowing that and loving them anyway. My flesh tells me its a waste of time, its hopeless, and that nothing will come of it. My flesh tells me I could be doing something else with my life. What sucks is I'm right. But Jesus is greater than the lies my flesh says, and my trust is fully in my Savior who saved me when no one else could.
Thursday, July 8, 2010
Cynthia II
It's 7:30 in the morning. I'm at a Subway across from the courthouse on Indiana Ave and I'm watching hoards of blue collar and white collar workers join the rat race and get to work on time.
I am one of them now.
It's so strange to think about it but when I actually concentrate on the fact that I'm employed, paying taxes, and "doing my part," I can't help but chuckle to myself. How quickly I went from a child to an adult. What a twisted road I took; this year of working at Community Connections will be one where I look back and wonder how I made it. There will be times when it dragged on for eternity, and there will be times when I blinked and it was over. I can't believe it's already July. Does the rest of life go so quickly?
I'm snapped back to reality when someone tries to come into the Subway from a locked door. "Not open, come in main ah-trence!" Another African, employed and working in America. The begger is pissed but keeps walking. I hate this place this morning, and decide to kill time by writing my parents a letter from the pen and paper the Congressman's office gave me as a "thank you" for being such a great intern. So great, in fact, they didn't hire me when a job opened. I'm trying so hard to not be bitter, but it's difficult when they went with someone with more hill experience over someone who knew the job, and spent so much time and effort with the offices in Yorktown. Now I'm stuck in this job I hate it because I can't do any better for myself. I'm drowning in this pity party. Letter.
"Dear Mom and Dad,
I'm here at a Subway restaurant, waiting to see if one of my clients will show around 9. It's about 7:30-- I had to drive Kiara to Chinatown today to catch a bus to NYC, where she has a job interview.
I feel very stuck right now. There are no jobs out there for which I can easily apply, and without a Masters' degree, I'm not very marketable. Lately I've been having trouble thinking to the futre; been stuck in the moment. I might be writing you all a lot of letters over the next year; it helps. I'm starting to resent the city. I'm trying very hard to remember memories here with family, but there are so many moments now that override the old ones. I'm trying to focus on the year; this is only temporary. this is only a year, but it seems like an eternity. All I really want to do is get this over with and get out; I don't even know if I want to stay in Arlington. I want to be somewhere away from the city and the busy style of things.
I got really angry at God yesterday. I want to know why God allows some people to be born into failure; drug addicted homes, predisposed to these dangerous lifestyles. I realized yesterday that I'm looking evil blatantly in the eye everyday and it's exhausting. I feel so frail today, like I'm powerless, helpless, and doing absolutely nothing important. I feel like I'm not good enough to work anywhere else, like I have no other choices right now. And I know this is my problem, where I'm here stuck in the moment. I can't seem to get out of it. I'm sick of crying; I'm never hungry and I've lost some weight; I don't have any interests today other than sleep. A year; I have to just get through this for a year.
Do you think I'm weak? Do you think I'm a coward? I know I need to just grow up; Maybe I was too eager to grow up. I don't really remember why I was in such a hurry. I don't remember who was so important that I had to impress them. Have you ever felt this way? Will it go away, or will I always feel so overwhelmed? The funny thing is, I'm not scared of losing my job. I'm not worried I'll fail on paper. I'm not even scared of my clients; I walked around bad Anacostia neighborhood yesterday to clear my head. I still can't even pinpoint the breakdowns, except I feel I got what I deserved. I'm working at a job I settled for because I was so scared of being looked down on as a college-graduate-nobody. I'm my own worst enemy I guess. But all I'm wondering now is what I was trying to hard to prove in the first place.
I've considered failing on purpose at this job and not making productivity; that would give me 2 months to clear out; one on probabtion and the other final month to leave. But that would be a black eye on my resume and I'd be stuck with rent and no way to pay. This isn't the worst; I know that I am very blessed and I'm thankful for God's provision and my relationship with Him.
This is not a good letter; I know. I'm sorry you guys have to read about my gray while still dealing with Nana. I'll be better, I think. I'll write more. It helps. I love you both so much, and miss you.
Love,
Ellen"
Mr. Moten's supposed to be here soon; I should probably walk over to the Judicairy Metro stop. I keep an eye out for Mr. Bogash; he wants to meet up later and discuss why I got into "do-gooder" work, as he calls it. If only he knew I feel like I'm trapped, in every possible way.
Mr. Moten is already at the Metro. He's easy to recognize. He's a very handsome black man who would probably go very far in life if drugs and schizophrenia hadn't taken hold of him in his 20s. He's a father of 3 and is here to inquire about how much money is taken out of his SSI check for child support. His youngest is 18 and he seems to think the cut off age is 18, though I have a sinking feeling it's 21. He's angry that his son's mother is likely pocketing the money and as I sit down next to him in the heat, he sounds so helpless.
"I can't figure this out," he says. "I'm paying for him and they takin' this money out and I don't even know if he's gettin' it. I can't get a break man, can't get a break."
Mr. Moten is especially heart-breaking. He takes great pride in his appearance. Today he's wearing a baby-blue shirt and nice slacks. He loves to read and carries his lawnchair with him everywhere. I've often seen him in the Mall lounging in front of monuments with books from the library. He's a kind soul, so quick to smile and so observant. I have a picture of my parents on my desk, and the first thing he ever said to me was "you are the spittin' image of your mother." He's always talking about starting an enterprise, a "philanthropy like Bono or Bill Clinton" and he's always looking for investors. He found one the other day apparently, but it was an annonymous donor.
"Look at everyone. Walking around like everything is just peaches an' cream. Don't nobody know what a hard break is. They all got money, they have no idea. Ellen, I got a book on making money. All about capitalism."
"Oh, I studied some of that theory in school. Want me to explain it to you?"
He looks suddenly amused. I walked into a hole with this one. "Go ahead."
"Umm, ok. So capitalism is where the market is free from most government regulations and buyers and sellers determine the prices of goods. There is competition and people can get rich or poor depending on how competitive they make themselves. Everyone has an equal opportunity to succeed or fail." I cringe as I say this, because I know it isn't true.
"I know I know what it is. The rich get richer and the poor get poorer. I know, I'm one of the poorer ones, fall on hard times. You ever had a hard time, Ellen?"
I hesitate, because there was a time in my life I couldn't physically move by myself. Mr. Moten has never experienced this; he's in perfect shape, just incredibly poor. "Yes, but it's different from what you're going through, Mr. Moten. Everyone has different problems. Just because you're rich doesn't mean life is good; someone who looks like everything is just 'peaches and cream' may have a whole 'nother set of issues that you will never have to experience."
"Hmm. Maybe, I guess you're right. Let's go in now."
We're both drenched because it's around 100 degrees outside. Mr. Moten discovers that he has to keep paying child support until his son is 21. He laughs, but there's a certain defeat to it. I'm sorry Mr. Moten, I want to say. I'm sorry that you're stuck and you can't start trying to build your business until after you can save some more money. I'm sorry you're sweet, caring nature will never really be seen by the world because society is so quick to label you a nobody, an undesirable. I'm sorry the world won't get the chance to see what your potential could've been. I wish I could do more to help you, Mr. Moten; it hurts to think of all you've been robbed of.
"Please have a safe weekend, Mr. Moten. Stay inside in the air conditiong, ok? Drink a lot of water. Be safe, take care of yourself Mr. Moten."
"Alright. I'll see you on Tuesday, Ellen."
-----------------------------------------
I pick up Cynthia later that morning. She's wearing clothes today and her face looks surprisingly younger; she's washed and her eyes look clear, like she's as mentally cognizant as she can be. What a strange difference from yesterday; she's so calm. Like a different spirit exists inside her today; her mom's the one in the towel this morning and I silently pray that it stays on this time.
"I'm ready when you are." Cynthia's smoking a cigarette and eying me quietly, like she's still deciding whether or not she can trust me. I'm so ready to go. "Alright, come on then."
We go outside her building, and one of her neighbors is smoking pot on the stairs. He looks at me suspiciously. "Nah, this my case manager, you good," Cynthia says, quickly easing his suspicions that I'm with the police in any way. There's a flyer on my windshield when I go outside, but Cynthia's gotten to my car first to pull it and look at it. Her face somehow remains expressionless as she reads that her neighbor was killed on the 4th of July.
His name is John Pernell, and he was in his 60s. Someone was trying to rob him while he was setting up a cookout in his yard, and when he refused to give up money, he was shot multiple times and pronounced dead by the time the police took him to the hospital.
"Did you know him?" Cynthia nods silently. "Are you ok, Ms. Hayes?"
"I'm fine. Everyone know Mr. Pernell though, he been 'round here over 20 years. He such a nice man, he always telling me 'put on more clothes 'lil girl!' Ha, I just go over watch tv at his 'partment. Nice man."
There's little remorse in her voice. She's not weeping, and I notice that the look on her face still hasn't changed. She's numb except for the random memories and she cracks a smile every now and then. I see tragedy and she sees another day in the neighborhood.
We're stuck in traffic on 295, and I let my mind drift. Even Cynthia had people she knew that would come out of the woodworks and be her friend, so easily. I pictured Mr. Pernell, an older man who had lived a hard life but finally got his own piece of heaven to own in Anacostia, where he'd worked hard his whole life. It must've hurt his heart to see women like Cynthia sell themselves short and succumb to the pressures of street life. He must've told her to put on more clothes with a smile on his face, but secretly wished to protect her as a father looks after a daughter who doesn't know better. He was the man who waved at you from his porch as he sat in the sun all day. He knew your first name. He was kind and helpful, and thought he'd get to see his grandchildren later that day. An innocent bystander and now he's dead. He's dead and Cynthia's numb. Cynthia's numb and I'm driving in this heat, pondering a pointless death, filled with dissatisfaction for the way things turn out, wishing the sun would burn me down into the sidewalk or the rain would dissolve me; melt me down into nothing so I could claim ignorance in the midst of all this hopelessness. 'There was another shooting? Someone else is dead and no one really cares? I don't know anything about it, I can't be trusted to do anything; I'm merely burnt ash and evaporated water. I'm not here, and if I appear to be a living, breathing, cognizant human being, it's all a mistake. I'm really quite helpless.'
Cynthia, I can tell, is used to being told "no." She begs for money from anyone shamelessly, including me. She gets her bus pass for free because she whines over and over that she has no money for a replacement ID. "No" is just a way of life and it's broken her down so much. She has moments throughout the day when I say something that makes her laugh, though I never really mean to. She tells me she likes my shoes and asks about the blisters on my feet. She smiles randomly. She's so quiet, yet in a tender, child-like way. She litters once, and I ask her to pick it up and please find a trashcan; she does and apologizes. I wonder what broke her down, or what she was like before... life happened. Mr. Pernell is not the first person she knew to die; how did she react at the very first death of a friend? Did she scream and cry? Was she angry? How do you start becoming so calloused to death; what does that process even look like?
I take her home and she's still quiet, happy about the bus pass and regretful that she won't make her NA meeting for the sake of Mr. Pernell's funeral. I understand. She makes random comments about traffic, and finally, I can't take it anymore.
"How can you be so calm about Mr. Pernell? How are you ok?!" I realize I shouldn't be asking someone with schizoaffective disorder these questions, but it's eating me.
She stares straight ahead and answers quietly, never blinking. "I know a lot of people to die. My friend got killed right in front of me in 2000, and I got shot in the leg. I don't know." And she doesn't know; she's telling me. Not asking for an explanation, but simply telling me, like she'd tell me the weather.
"Aren't you scared?" Wrong question.
"Nah, I ain't scared. You scared, ain't you?"
Yes, Cynthia. I'm scared that the world's so incredibly fucked up that we can't begin to see where good ends and evil begins.
"No, I'm not. I was just wondering about your past trauma history, and how that must still be hard on you."
She's smiling to herself again. "I'm not scared." And maybe she genuinely believes that.
We get home and she turns to me. "Thank you, Ms. Ellen. I'll see you later, then." I'm suddenly overwhelmed that she thanked me; this woman who has, deep down, a sweet, quiet spirit yet has such a rough exterior in order to cope with her surroundings; this woman took the wall down to thank me today. What a huge, incredibly powerful thing genuine gratitude is.
"You're so welcome, Ms. Hayes. I'll see you next week." There are more John Pernell flyers on other cars. My eyes are blurring with tears as I make a u-turn to go back to the office. As I pass her house, she's still on the porch, waiting for me to drive by. She waves briefly, then turns to go.
Cynthia, I could've so easily been you. You could've so easily been me. How unfair it all is, and yet you found it necessary to thank me? I've done nothing worthy of your thanks, sweet lady. I'm just another sparrow, and we're all trying to find our way back to the nest.
I am one of them now.
It's so strange to think about it but when I actually concentrate on the fact that I'm employed, paying taxes, and "doing my part," I can't help but chuckle to myself. How quickly I went from a child to an adult. What a twisted road I took; this year of working at Community Connections will be one where I look back and wonder how I made it. There will be times when it dragged on for eternity, and there will be times when I blinked and it was over. I can't believe it's already July. Does the rest of life go so quickly?
I'm snapped back to reality when someone tries to come into the Subway from a locked door. "Not open, come in main ah-trence!" Another African, employed and working in America. The begger is pissed but keeps walking. I hate this place this morning, and decide to kill time by writing my parents a letter from the pen and paper the Congressman's office gave me as a "thank you" for being such a great intern. So great, in fact, they didn't hire me when a job opened. I'm trying so hard to not be bitter, but it's difficult when they went with someone with more hill experience over someone who knew the job, and spent so much time and effort with the offices in Yorktown. Now I'm stuck in this job I hate it because I can't do any better for myself. I'm drowning in this pity party. Letter.
"Dear Mom and Dad,
I'm here at a Subway restaurant, waiting to see if one of my clients will show around 9. It's about 7:30-- I had to drive Kiara to Chinatown today to catch a bus to NYC, where she has a job interview.
I feel very stuck right now. There are no jobs out there for which I can easily apply, and without a Masters' degree, I'm not very marketable. Lately I've been having trouble thinking to the futre; been stuck in the moment. I might be writing you all a lot of letters over the next year; it helps. I'm starting to resent the city. I'm trying very hard to remember memories here with family, but there are so many moments now that override the old ones. I'm trying to focus on the year; this is only temporary. this is only a year, but it seems like an eternity. All I really want to do is get this over with and get out; I don't even know if I want to stay in Arlington. I want to be somewhere away from the city and the busy style of things.
I got really angry at God yesterday. I want to know why God allows some people to be born into failure; drug addicted homes, predisposed to these dangerous lifestyles. I realized yesterday that I'm looking evil blatantly in the eye everyday and it's exhausting. I feel so frail today, like I'm powerless, helpless, and doing absolutely nothing important. I feel like I'm not good enough to work anywhere else, like I have no other choices right now. And I know this is my problem, where I'm here stuck in the moment. I can't seem to get out of it. I'm sick of crying; I'm never hungry and I've lost some weight; I don't have any interests today other than sleep. A year; I have to just get through this for a year.
Do you think I'm weak? Do you think I'm a coward? I know I need to just grow up; Maybe I was too eager to grow up. I don't really remember why I was in such a hurry. I don't remember who was so important that I had to impress them. Have you ever felt this way? Will it go away, or will I always feel so overwhelmed? The funny thing is, I'm not scared of losing my job. I'm not worried I'll fail on paper. I'm not even scared of my clients; I walked around bad Anacostia neighborhood yesterday to clear my head. I still can't even pinpoint the breakdowns, except I feel I got what I deserved. I'm working at a job I settled for because I was so scared of being looked down on as a college-graduate-nobody. I'm my own worst enemy I guess. But all I'm wondering now is what I was trying to hard to prove in the first place.
I've considered failing on purpose at this job and not making productivity; that would give me 2 months to clear out; one on probabtion and the other final month to leave. But that would be a black eye on my resume and I'd be stuck with rent and no way to pay. This isn't the worst; I know that I am very blessed and I'm thankful for God's provision and my relationship with Him.
This is not a good letter; I know. I'm sorry you guys have to read about my gray while still dealing with Nana. I'll be better, I think. I'll write more. It helps. I love you both so much, and miss you.
Love,
Ellen"
Mr. Moten's supposed to be here soon; I should probably walk over to the Judicairy Metro stop. I keep an eye out for Mr. Bogash; he wants to meet up later and discuss why I got into "do-gooder" work, as he calls it. If only he knew I feel like I'm trapped, in every possible way.
Mr. Moten is already at the Metro. He's easy to recognize. He's a very handsome black man who would probably go very far in life if drugs and schizophrenia hadn't taken hold of him in his 20s. He's a father of 3 and is here to inquire about how much money is taken out of his SSI check for child support. His youngest is 18 and he seems to think the cut off age is 18, though I have a sinking feeling it's 21. He's angry that his son's mother is likely pocketing the money and as I sit down next to him in the heat, he sounds so helpless.
"I can't figure this out," he says. "I'm paying for him and they takin' this money out and I don't even know if he's gettin' it. I can't get a break man, can't get a break."
Mr. Moten is especially heart-breaking. He takes great pride in his appearance. Today he's wearing a baby-blue shirt and nice slacks. He loves to read and carries his lawnchair with him everywhere. I've often seen him in the Mall lounging in front of monuments with books from the library. He's a kind soul, so quick to smile and so observant. I have a picture of my parents on my desk, and the first thing he ever said to me was "you are the spittin' image of your mother." He's always talking about starting an enterprise, a "philanthropy like Bono or Bill Clinton" and he's always looking for investors. He found one the other day apparently, but it was an annonymous donor.
"Look at everyone. Walking around like everything is just peaches an' cream. Don't nobody know what a hard break is. They all got money, they have no idea. Ellen, I got a book on making money. All about capitalism."
"Oh, I studied some of that theory in school. Want me to explain it to you?"
He looks suddenly amused. I walked into a hole with this one. "Go ahead."
"Umm, ok. So capitalism is where the market is free from most government regulations and buyers and sellers determine the prices of goods. There is competition and people can get rich or poor depending on how competitive they make themselves. Everyone has an equal opportunity to succeed or fail." I cringe as I say this, because I know it isn't true.
"I know I know what it is. The rich get richer and the poor get poorer. I know, I'm one of the poorer ones, fall on hard times. You ever had a hard time, Ellen?"
I hesitate, because there was a time in my life I couldn't physically move by myself. Mr. Moten has never experienced this; he's in perfect shape, just incredibly poor. "Yes, but it's different from what you're going through, Mr. Moten. Everyone has different problems. Just because you're rich doesn't mean life is good; someone who looks like everything is just 'peaches and cream' may have a whole 'nother set of issues that you will never have to experience."
"Hmm. Maybe, I guess you're right. Let's go in now."
We're both drenched because it's around 100 degrees outside. Mr. Moten discovers that he has to keep paying child support until his son is 21. He laughs, but there's a certain defeat to it. I'm sorry Mr. Moten, I want to say. I'm sorry that you're stuck and you can't start trying to build your business until after you can save some more money. I'm sorry you're sweet, caring nature will never really be seen by the world because society is so quick to label you a nobody, an undesirable. I'm sorry the world won't get the chance to see what your potential could've been. I wish I could do more to help you, Mr. Moten; it hurts to think of all you've been robbed of.
"Please have a safe weekend, Mr. Moten. Stay inside in the air conditiong, ok? Drink a lot of water. Be safe, take care of yourself Mr. Moten."
"Alright. I'll see you on Tuesday, Ellen."
-----------------------------------------
I pick up Cynthia later that morning. She's wearing clothes today and her face looks surprisingly younger; she's washed and her eyes look clear, like she's as mentally cognizant as she can be. What a strange difference from yesterday; she's so calm. Like a different spirit exists inside her today; her mom's the one in the towel this morning and I silently pray that it stays on this time.
"I'm ready when you are." Cynthia's smoking a cigarette and eying me quietly, like she's still deciding whether or not she can trust me. I'm so ready to go. "Alright, come on then."
We go outside her building, and one of her neighbors is smoking pot on the stairs. He looks at me suspiciously. "Nah, this my case manager, you good," Cynthia says, quickly easing his suspicions that I'm with the police in any way. There's a flyer on my windshield when I go outside, but Cynthia's gotten to my car first to pull it and look at it. Her face somehow remains expressionless as she reads that her neighbor was killed on the 4th of July.
His name is John Pernell, and he was in his 60s. Someone was trying to rob him while he was setting up a cookout in his yard, and when he refused to give up money, he was shot multiple times and pronounced dead by the time the police took him to the hospital.
"Did you know him?" Cynthia nods silently. "Are you ok, Ms. Hayes?"
"I'm fine. Everyone know Mr. Pernell though, he been 'round here over 20 years. He such a nice man, he always telling me 'put on more clothes 'lil girl!' Ha, I just go over watch tv at his 'partment. Nice man."
There's little remorse in her voice. She's not weeping, and I notice that the look on her face still hasn't changed. She's numb except for the random memories and she cracks a smile every now and then. I see tragedy and she sees another day in the neighborhood.
We're stuck in traffic on 295, and I let my mind drift. Even Cynthia had people she knew that would come out of the woodworks and be her friend, so easily. I pictured Mr. Pernell, an older man who had lived a hard life but finally got his own piece of heaven to own in Anacostia, where he'd worked hard his whole life. It must've hurt his heart to see women like Cynthia sell themselves short and succumb to the pressures of street life. He must've told her to put on more clothes with a smile on his face, but secretly wished to protect her as a father looks after a daughter who doesn't know better. He was the man who waved at you from his porch as he sat in the sun all day. He knew your first name. He was kind and helpful, and thought he'd get to see his grandchildren later that day. An innocent bystander and now he's dead. He's dead and Cynthia's numb. Cynthia's numb and I'm driving in this heat, pondering a pointless death, filled with dissatisfaction for the way things turn out, wishing the sun would burn me down into the sidewalk or the rain would dissolve me; melt me down into nothing so I could claim ignorance in the midst of all this hopelessness. 'There was another shooting? Someone else is dead and no one really cares? I don't know anything about it, I can't be trusted to do anything; I'm merely burnt ash and evaporated water. I'm not here, and if I appear to be a living, breathing, cognizant human being, it's all a mistake. I'm really quite helpless.'
Cynthia, I can tell, is used to being told "no." She begs for money from anyone shamelessly, including me. She gets her bus pass for free because she whines over and over that she has no money for a replacement ID. "No" is just a way of life and it's broken her down so much. She has moments throughout the day when I say something that makes her laugh, though I never really mean to. She tells me she likes my shoes and asks about the blisters on my feet. She smiles randomly. She's so quiet, yet in a tender, child-like way. She litters once, and I ask her to pick it up and please find a trashcan; she does and apologizes. I wonder what broke her down, or what she was like before... life happened. Mr. Pernell is not the first person she knew to die; how did she react at the very first death of a friend? Did she scream and cry? Was she angry? How do you start becoming so calloused to death; what does that process even look like?
I take her home and she's still quiet, happy about the bus pass and regretful that she won't make her NA meeting for the sake of Mr. Pernell's funeral. I understand. She makes random comments about traffic, and finally, I can't take it anymore.
"How can you be so calm about Mr. Pernell? How are you ok?!" I realize I shouldn't be asking someone with schizoaffective disorder these questions, but it's eating me.
She stares straight ahead and answers quietly, never blinking. "I know a lot of people to die. My friend got killed right in front of me in 2000, and I got shot in the leg. I don't know." And she doesn't know; she's telling me. Not asking for an explanation, but simply telling me, like she'd tell me the weather.
"Aren't you scared?" Wrong question.
"Nah, I ain't scared. You scared, ain't you?"
Yes, Cynthia. I'm scared that the world's so incredibly fucked up that we can't begin to see where good ends and evil begins.
"No, I'm not. I was just wondering about your past trauma history, and how that must still be hard on you."
She's smiling to herself again. "I'm not scared." And maybe she genuinely believes that.
We get home and she turns to me. "Thank you, Ms. Ellen. I'll see you later, then." I'm suddenly overwhelmed that she thanked me; this woman who has, deep down, a sweet, quiet spirit yet has such a rough exterior in order to cope with her surroundings; this woman took the wall down to thank me today. What a huge, incredibly powerful thing genuine gratitude is.
"You're so welcome, Ms. Hayes. I'll see you next week." There are more John Pernell flyers on other cars. My eyes are blurring with tears as I make a u-turn to go back to the office. As I pass her house, she's still on the porch, waiting for me to drive by. She waves briefly, then turns to go.
Cynthia, I could've so easily been you. You could've so easily been me. How unfair it all is, and yet you found it necessary to thank me? I've done nothing worthy of your thanks, sweet lady. I'm just another sparrow, and we're all trying to find our way back to the nest.
Cynthia
I met her yesterday for the first time, really. I'm walking in and the apartment reaks overwhelmingly of cigarette smoke. She's in a towel and cussing out her mother and I'm trying to not make eye contact while simultaneously sending the vibe that I'm trustworthy and she doesnt have anything to worry about... yeah right. I don't know what I'm doing and I'm quite frankly terrified becuase I'm pretty sure Cynthia's coming down from a bad trip on PCP.
"I know she used drugs this weekend. I can see it in her face, her attitude change, her words change, she just diff'rent, and she don't think I know but I know, I see it."
Ms. Felicia Hayes has had it with Cynthia yelling and swearing at her. I don't blame her. She's in curlers and trying to relax, quietly explaining to me that her son is in jail, she suffers from depression, she recently retired from a job cleaning a hopsital her whole life, and now she has to take care of Cynthia. The tv's on and some commercial comes on for bipolar medication: "it can feel like you're drowning..." I'm thrown for a loop; Ms. Hayes needs just as much as help as her daughter and she's telling me she expects me to basically take over for her, but she's saying it in this gentle voice that makes me continue to nod along to the requests and I'm not processing really, I'm simply going with the flow of the conversation and before I know it I'm lulled into agreeing to take over Cynthia's life. A list of what she needs. Why she needs it. Where and when she needs to be places. Doctor's visits--
"You stole my fuggin' money! Sit over there like you don't know what I'm talking about, you know you took it! Don't know where else it gon' be? Shit. Stole my fuggin' money."
Ms. Hayes shakes her head and I look at Cynthia. Her anger broke my trance and for the first time I get a good look at her. She's light skinned, and her eyes are huge brown pools of sadness. Her hair is in weaves down her scalp and it's an obnoxious blonde color; she's itching it because it was done yesterday. She was wearing a towel, but in her fit of anger, it fell and she's disoriented and fumbling for it, picking it up from the dirty floor, but taking her time. She's not worried about who sees her, or who might walk in the door. She looks at me as if I'm supposed to join in the blame game, and she's not at all worried about putting the towel back on. Cynthia's only got one objective right now.
"Look at her."
It's a command, and her mother is staring grid-locked in Cynthia's eyes. Daring her to make eye contact. But Cynthia's looking at me.
"I said, LOOK at her!"
I turn around to face her mother as briefly as possible before Cynthia is satisfied. But her mom is still looking right at her daughter; her 42 year old daughter who has a son in jail, a teenage daughter with 2 kids, and a drug problem that eats her money and causes her to blame others. Ms. Hayes is the epitome of helpless, and I feel the same.
The towel's back on. Thank God. I'm trying to talk to Cynthia privately, but the entire time, all she can tell me is she lost her bus pass and her phone and again, it's my responsibility to retrieve these things. I agree to pick her up tomorrow and take her downtown to the Transit Authority to get a new bus card, but only if she agrees to go to an NA meeting on Saturday. Technically, we're not supposed to bargain with clients but I don't know how else to get through to her.
I barely get to the car before I break down. I'm in the middle of shit, shit Anacostia and sobbing for the poverty stricken world to see, this pathetic little white girl in completely over her head and not knowing what to do with a woman on drugs and a mother who's just as lost and confused as I am. I'm furious and I still don't remember that car ride back to work. All I remember is driving home that day, screaming at God, so angry that He would create some people predisposed to fail, it seems. I keep seeing Cynthia and the wells of anger boiling up from the drugs. But really they're from the fact that her son is in prison, or that she tried to be loved by men only to be raped and abused, or she was shot in the leg and watched her friend die beside her, or that she suffers from depression stemming from trauma so severe, she struggles to truly remember the events that have happened to her throughout her life. Why did God put me in a family that loves Jesus Christ and raised me in a loving environment? Why was I never a victim of drugs or violence or abuse? How do you pick, God? Who gets lucky and who gets screwed? Why are some people so much better off; why did I get the chance to go to college when there are others who are so much more deserving of these chances than me, and who may actually take better advantage of them than I ever would? How do you pick and choose?? I don't understand God, and I'm so angry. I'm still sobbing when I get to Kiara's home and she lets me cry for a while. The tv's on and I recognize the bipolar medication commercial that I heard at Cynthia's apartment; "like you're drowning..." I calm down and start on the paperwork. Tomorrow I'm seeing Mr. Moten in the morning and Ms. Hayes directly after. Long morning. I should sleep a lot tonight.
"I know she used drugs this weekend. I can see it in her face, her attitude change, her words change, she just diff'rent, and she don't think I know but I know, I see it."
Ms. Felicia Hayes has had it with Cynthia yelling and swearing at her. I don't blame her. She's in curlers and trying to relax, quietly explaining to me that her son is in jail, she suffers from depression, she recently retired from a job cleaning a hopsital her whole life, and now she has to take care of Cynthia. The tv's on and some commercial comes on for bipolar medication: "it can feel like you're drowning..." I'm thrown for a loop; Ms. Hayes needs just as much as help as her daughter and she's telling me she expects me to basically take over for her, but she's saying it in this gentle voice that makes me continue to nod along to the requests and I'm not processing really, I'm simply going with the flow of the conversation and before I know it I'm lulled into agreeing to take over Cynthia's life. A list of what she needs. Why she needs it. Where and when she needs to be places. Doctor's visits--
"You stole my fuggin' money! Sit over there like you don't know what I'm talking about, you know you took it! Don't know where else it gon' be? Shit. Stole my fuggin' money."
Ms. Hayes shakes her head and I look at Cynthia. Her anger broke my trance and for the first time I get a good look at her. She's light skinned, and her eyes are huge brown pools of sadness. Her hair is in weaves down her scalp and it's an obnoxious blonde color; she's itching it because it was done yesterday. She was wearing a towel, but in her fit of anger, it fell and she's disoriented and fumbling for it, picking it up from the dirty floor, but taking her time. She's not worried about who sees her, or who might walk in the door. She looks at me as if I'm supposed to join in the blame game, and she's not at all worried about putting the towel back on. Cynthia's only got one objective right now.
"Look at her."
It's a command, and her mother is staring grid-locked in Cynthia's eyes. Daring her to make eye contact. But Cynthia's looking at me.
"I said, LOOK at her!"
I turn around to face her mother as briefly as possible before Cynthia is satisfied. But her mom is still looking right at her daughter; her 42 year old daughter who has a son in jail, a teenage daughter with 2 kids, and a drug problem that eats her money and causes her to blame others. Ms. Hayes is the epitome of helpless, and I feel the same.
The towel's back on. Thank God. I'm trying to talk to Cynthia privately, but the entire time, all she can tell me is she lost her bus pass and her phone and again, it's my responsibility to retrieve these things. I agree to pick her up tomorrow and take her downtown to the Transit Authority to get a new bus card, but only if she agrees to go to an NA meeting on Saturday. Technically, we're not supposed to bargain with clients but I don't know how else to get through to her.
I barely get to the car before I break down. I'm in the middle of shit, shit Anacostia and sobbing for the poverty stricken world to see, this pathetic little white girl in completely over her head and not knowing what to do with a woman on drugs and a mother who's just as lost and confused as I am. I'm furious and I still don't remember that car ride back to work. All I remember is driving home that day, screaming at God, so angry that He would create some people predisposed to fail, it seems. I keep seeing Cynthia and the wells of anger boiling up from the drugs. But really they're from the fact that her son is in prison, or that she tried to be loved by men only to be raped and abused, or she was shot in the leg and watched her friend die beside her, or that she suffers from depression stemming from trauma so severe, she struggles to truly remember the events that have happened to her throughout her life. Why did God put me in a family that loves Jesus Christ and raised me in a loving environment? Why was I never a victim of drugs or violence or abuse? How do you pick, God? Who gets lucky and who gets screwed? Why are some people so much better off; why did I get the chance to go to college when there are others who are so much more deserving of these chances than me, and who may actually take better advantage of them than I ever would? How do you pick and choose?? I don't understand God, and I'm so angry. I'm still sobbing when I get to Kiara's home and she lets me cry for a while. The tv's on and I recognize the bipolar medication commercial that I heard at Cynthia's apartment; "like you're drowning..." I calm down and start on the paperwork. Tomorrow I'm seeing Mr. Moten in the morning and Ms. Hayes directly after. Long morning. I should sleep a lot tonight.
Friday, July 2, 2010
Bonds
It's Friday and it's the 4th of July weekend. Hallelujah. Amen. So ready for that to come.
I got to know Liz and Arthur and Courtney better today; I absolutely love the people I work with. Yesterday David sat down and went through all of my clients one by one to make sure they were all mentally/emotionally a good fit for me. That was really great, especially after the difficulty of last week. But today went really well. Liz and I laughed a lot, and Arthur is a really cool person; he wants to start a non-profit and is looking at Community Connections a lot from the business angle, considering it is the largest non-profit on the East Coast. Liz is just fun, a very kindred spirit and I really hope we can become good friends. We'll live close by in Arlington and we've already talked about some events going on either in Arlington, Alexandria, or the city that we want to go to together. I got to tell her about my tattoo today and my desire for another one soon enough, and she told me about some of hers. Rachel's coming in tomorrow and we'll move to Arlington, then we'll go to DC all day Sunday and Monday. Can't wait.
I got to know Liz and Arthur and Courtney better today; I absolutely love the people I work with. Yesterday David sat down and went through all of my clients one by one to make sure they were all mentally/emotionally a good fit for me. That was really great, especially after the difficulty of last week. But today went really well. Liz and I laughed a lot, and Arthur is a really cool person; he wants to start a non-profit and is looking at Community Connections a lot from the business angle, considering it is the largest non-profit on the East Coast. Liz is just fun, a very kindred spirit and I really hope we can become good friends. We'll live close by in Arlington and we've already talked about some events going on either in Arlington, Alexandria, or the city that we want to go to together. I got to tell her about my tattoo today and my desire for another one soon enough, and she told me about some of hers. Rachel's coming in tomorrow and we'll move to Arlington, then we'll go to DC all day Sunday and Monday. Can't wait.
I really shouldn't be blogging right now; Rose Shaw's lawyer called me today about documentation that she had been a part of CC for the past two months, and I have yet to send him the necessary paperwork.
On Wednesday, the judge finally put Ms. Shaw away, and though she was dreading it, she knew it was coming. So I was there for that, and actually felt a little relief that we would just get the jail time over with and she could move on with her life.
But Ms Shaw went to jail. I was sitting in the car with her, listening to her beg me to turn the car around, start crying, saying she didn't want to go to jail. There's a part of me that's slowly becoming calloused from this job, like she deserves it, she needs to just suck it up and handle the consequences and make this as painless as possible because I'm looking at the clock hoping the trial will last at least an hour because I want that productivity with her... and maybe if I didn't start developing that type of mentality, I'd become trapped in a world where I was torn apart by every one of my consumers that had to face the music and go to jail, swearing all the way to the courthouse they'd change and I'd be taken for a ride every time. Living that way is not for me, and thinking that way is far more exhausting than I want to handle. I'm learning the art of leaving my work at work and at 5pm, it's Ellen-time.
On Wednesday, the judge finally put Ms. Shaw away, and though she was dreading it, she knew it was coming. So I was there for that, and actually felt a little relief that we would just get the jail time over with and she could move on with her life.
But Ms Shaw went to jail. I was sitting in the car with her, listening to her beg me to turn the car around, start crying, saying she didn't want to go to jail. There's a part of me that's slowly becoming calloused from this job, like she deserves it, she needs to just suck it up and handle the consequences and make this as painless as possible because I'm looking at the clock hoping the trial will last at least an hour because I want that productivity with her... and maybe if I didn't start developing that type of mentality, I'd become trapped in a world where I was torn apart by every one of my consumers that had to face the music and go to jail, swearing all the way to the courthouse they'd change and I'd be taken for a ride every time. Living that way is not for me, and thinking that way is far more exhausting than I want to handle. I'm learning the art of leaving my work at work and at 5pm, it's Ellen-time.
Oh and just for the sake of humility, I completely ate it in front of the court house. I was walking, maybe strutting a little because I felt particularly cute that day, and my ankle just gave out and I tripped and fell on my hands and knees for the whole world to see. I started laughing at myself, but Ms. Rose just looked at me and shook her head. "We both having shitty days, girl." Yeah she's right.
I'm sitting in Motivational Interview training, wishing I were back in the courtroom or Howard or at someone's house. I'm quickly learning how to avoid boredom by just kicking it with the consumers.
Liz is laughing. She's got this app on her Droid phone that says random facts every day and we're A. bitter that someone gets paid exponentially more than we do to work for Apple and produce said facts and B. trying to find all 50 states on the 5 dollar bill because apparently they are listed on the Lincoln Memorial. We find 26 and start laughing again. The average person laughs 13 times a day, apparently. We're up to about 73, but there's a kid on the metro who gets hit in the head by a guy who's pushing and shoving to get off at Rosslyn and we decide that was a traumatic-enough event to lower the laugh number down to about 35. Still better than 13, so the day's a success, we agree. Tattoos and music and movies and museums and maybe more talk about the people we work with; all good topics with Liz and I'm just hoping we'll be friends and have more laughs like this in the future.
Liz is laughing. She's got this app on her Droid phone that says random facts every day and we're A. bitter that someone gets paid exponentially more than we do to work for Apple and produce said facts and B. trying to find all 50 states on the 5 dollar bill because apparently they are listed on the Lincoln Memorial. We find 26 and start laughing again. The average person laughs 13 times a day, apparently. We're up to about 73, but there's a kid on the metro who gets hit in the head by a guy who's pushing and shoving to get off at Rosslyn and we decide that was a traumatic-enough event to lower the laugh number down to about 35. Still better than 13, so the day's a success, we agree. Tattoos and music and movies and museums and maybe more talk about the people we work with; all good topics with Liz and I'm just hoping we'll be friends and have more laughs like this in the future.
I went to Annapolis with Aunt Lisa on Wednesday, and Thursday I went to Alexandria with Callie and spent the night there. Callie is getting engaged soon and invited me down to Mississippi around Christmas time to help her look for wedding paraphernalia.
CC, though, was good this week. I made productivity and I'm at peace with the job, as difficult as it may seem. I'm ready to just tackle it and make the most of the opportunity. And I'm very thankful for Liz and Arthur today; we kept each other laughing the whole time.
I was with Brenda Deans for about 6 hours yesterday. She had a colonoscopy procedure done at Howard, and she's this obese woman who's borderline retarded, with schizophrenia. She is a sweet person, and it honestly felt like I took the day off from work to be with her; she was simply in need of someone to transport her places and hold her hand through the waiting process, as well as help her with paperwork and answering questions. Ms. Deans is one of my favorites, because she's very compliant and is so sure of herself, even though she has every reason not to be. There's nothing stable in her life. Her mother died and her sister Regina and Regina's two evil kids moved into Ms. Deans' apartment. There was a shooting in the neighborhood the other day, and Ms. Deans was outside walking and heard it; the fact that it scared her broke my heart.
Waiting in Howard always gives me a fresh perspective. I used to hate that hospital because it was a training hospital where all the doctors had to take Medicaid, so obviously all the patients are poorer and rougher. But it's grown on me. A lot of the doctors are African; a lot of the nurses and orderlies are African, and the fact that they're from Africa and making a life for themselves in the DC area is encouraging. These people are brilliant, and I wonder what their lives were like in Africa; I wonder what their stories say about them, how they came to the States and under what circumstances they arrived. I wonder how far they could've gone in their lives had they been born here, and given the full opportunities of American citizenship. Then, looking at some of the patients and the underprivileged lives of some of the folks I work with, maybe its for the best they were born somewhere else. But I still wonder. I wonder if it breaks their heart to see the way some blacks carry themselves here; the destitution people fall into, the helplessness the city brings on the some of the black population and how there's so little motivation to leave the ghetto and become better. Better can meet becoming "whiter," which can be viewed as abandoning your people and betraying the culture subjected to prejudice and biases. I wonder if Africans hate it, or if they want to disassociate from it all. What a crazy world, to go from Africa to a culture where no one appreciates those who help the poor.
Serena Williams was playing tennis yesterday at Wimbledon against some Russian and everyone in the room was watching Serena. It was one of those moments where I appreciated that no matter what your financial situation, there are still common cultural ties that have the magical ability to erase every boundary. Every black in the waiting room: the orderlies, the doctor, the Howard med student, the desk attendant, and the poor folks with tattoos and diseases just waiting: they were all watching and rooting for Serena. And I got to see a bond being formed in a very subdued yet powerful way that I respected and gladly stepped back and admired. I told Ms. Deans Serena won, and she smiled and said "that's good."
Jesus is the author of love, whether its brotherly love, agape love, or love between a father and a child. Every day, I have the honor of seeing love happen in little ways, and there are these vignettes that remain snapshots in my mind of the beauty of our Lord, and the persistence and strength of love created before man was on Earth. These portraits are blessings, and reminders that He will prevail in darkness. God is love, and there is love and beauty everywhere.
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
Personally...
My mom's mom is back at her apartment. She's out of the hospital and my mother is spending the night with her in case something else happens. A lot for my mom to handle.
In October of 2009, my parents called my phone and left me a hilarious voicemail which I saved and still listen to every now and then. I called home to tell them someone was engaged, meaning for it to be a surprise that my cousin's boyfriend had finally proposed to her at the Marine Corps Memorial in DC. My parents missed the part about it being my cousin's engagement, and thought I was going to tell them I got engaged. Needless to say, I got a voicemail from Mom and Dad that sounded thrilled and panicked at the same time, yet still completely hysterical in their rush to understand my non-existent engagement. I kept this voicemail because a week later, Nana had a massive stroke and my parents went to Minnesota to clean out her cabin and bring her home to Virginia to live. I don't remember my parents sounding like their happy, joking selves since that voicemail, and don't anticipate hearing that side of them again for a long time.
And I can't sleep. I have to pick up Rose tomorrow morning so I should be in bed before midnight, but its already 12:23 am and I'm still awake. I drifted off earlier, but I had a bad dream.
Through it all, Jesus has been my friend. I have held His hand when I have no idea what on Earth I'm doing, why I'm feeling the way I do, or what direction my life is heading. There are times when I relish the thought of not knowing; its suspenseful and liberating and I feel like I'm on the threshold of discovering the most marvelous secret. Sometimes I want nothing more than to get out of the city and be in the middle of nowhere and no one knows who I am. I could wait tables, live out of my car, be single and have nothing left to lose. There are other days I long for consistency. Consistency of what; I couldn't exactly answer that, I just know I could live mindless and redundantly sometimes and not complain.
This has all been a strange year. Matthew dies, Nana moves here, Ginny marries, I graduate and move to DC. Life is crazy, but in all the crazy, there is a strange comfort knowing both that things will be better and the people with whom you're going through it all are, at the end of the day, still family. And where there is family, though it may not always be obvious, there is love.
In October of 2009, my parents called my phone and left me a hilarious voicemail which I saved and still listen to every now and then. I called home to tell them someone was engaged, meaning for it to be a surprise that my cousin's boyfriend had finally proposed to her at the Marine Corps Memorial in DC. My parents missed the part about it being my cousin's engagement, and thought I was going to tell them I got engaged. Needless to say, I got a voicemail from Mom and Dad that sounded thrilled and panicked at the same time, yet still completely hysterical in their rush to understand my non-existent engagement. I kept this voicemail because a week later, Nana had a massive stroke and my parents went to Minnesota to clean out her cabin and bring her home to Virginia to live. I don't remember my parents sounding like their happy, joking selves since that voicemail, and don't anticipate hearing that side of them again for a long time.
And I can't sleep. I have to pick up Rose tomorrow morning so I should be in bed before midnight, but its already 12:23 am and I'm still awake. I drifted off earlier, but I had a bad dream.
Through it all, Jesus has been my friend. I have held His hand when I have no idea what on Earth I'm doing, why I'm feeling the way I do, or what direction my life is heading. There are times when I relish the thought of not knowing; its suspenseful and liberating and I feel like I'm on the threshold of discovering the most marvelous secret. Sometimes I want nothing more than to get out of the city and be in the middle of nowhere and no one knows who I am. I could wait tables, live out of my car, be single and have nothing left to lose. There are other days I long for consistency. Consistency of what; I couldn't exactly answer that, I just know I could live mindless and redundantly sometimes and not complain.
This has all been a strange year. Matthew dies, Nana moves here, Ginny marries, I graduate and move to DC. Life is crazy, but in all the crazy, there is a strange comfort knowing both that things will be better and the people with whom you're going through it all are, at the end of the day, still family. And where there is family, though it may not always be obvious, there is love.
Rose's Mother
I'm furious. Today was supposed to be easy time with my clients; I'd planned to pick up Rose Shaw from her home, take her to court, watch her get sentenced to prison for 30 days or so, and go home not having to worry about her for... 30 days or so. Of course, when I got to her home at 8:30 in the morning, she wasn't there. Her 88 year old mother was sitting on the bed and looking at me casually, despite the fact that I had let myself into the apartment and could have been anyone dangerous.
"She's already got goin' to the court, Ms. Ellen."
Awesome. All Rose Shaw does is beg me for money for a bus fare, and now she somehow managed to get herself to court? She's running, I think to myself. She's trying to get out of this any way she can because there's a bench warrant out for her arrest and she knows she's going to jail. Last time Ms. Shaw's court date occurred, she was suddenly suicidal and checked herself into the hospital. I had half a mind to go to George Washington Hospital Center and ask if Rose Shaw was their newest patient.
Rose is a very demanding woman, and though she comes across initially as a sweet person, she knows how to get what she wants. It's a learned survival skill of people formerly on the streets, but it's difficult to deal with sometimes. In the end, she still ends up losing, but at least she can say she tried to get herself out of trouble. I have a hard time remembering to call her "Ms. Shaw," even though we're supposed to address all our consumers as "Ms." or "Mr." I always find myself saying "Rose." Today, she's made me late to court and I don't even know if she's absolutely there or if she skipped town.
I start driving to the Northwest quadrant of DC, and the raw edges of the Southeast slowly turn into polished office buildings and monuments. I do enjoy this part of my job; DC is a fascinating city, not only in its cultural contrasts, but the speed with which one can merely cross a street and go from a trashy neighborhood to multi-million dollar housing. I'm driving and it looks like rain, but the overcast clouds have made it cooler. My windows are down, and I'm pleasantly surprised to find myself glad I get this morning to myself, without having to hear Rose complain.
My car has become my second home. Community Connections requires all their employees to have cars with them every day in case they need to drive a consumer somewhere or make an emergency hospital visit, etc. At first, I was pretty bitter about not being able to metro into the city every day, but as a prisoner begins to embrace his prison and make it his home, my car started becoming a sanctuary of sorts for me. After a while, I was content to not call my car a prison and view it as an escape from the office. I could turn on my music, pray, cry, talk to myself out loud, or just process what my next move would be. DC traffic, however, is not an escape. It's not a sanctuary and it's not anything I want to encounter if I have to, and today, Rose Shaw was making me drive in the awful traffic to 500 Indiana Ave at 8:45 in the morning, right before that golden hour of 9:00 am. My pristine morning was shattered by sirens and horns from all directions.
Meter parking didn't start until 9:30, so I had to park in a garage and pay 17 dollars for the entire day. I decided I'd just metro back to work and leave my car at the courthouse, considering I needed to go back there later in the day.
Rose wasn't in court. In fact, Rose wasn't even on the docket for the courtroom she told me she'd be in. Rose's attorney wasn't on the docket, and there was nothing in the records at the information desk that said Ms. Rose Shaw had a hearing in room 318 at 9:30.
I'd wasted 2 hours of my day. Fuming, I stop quickly at Community Connections, where Unity Clinic had set up a free HIV testing booth. There were swarms of people there to get tested, which was good considering one in 20 adults in DC have the virus. Rose's sister had passed 2 weeks ago from full-blown AIDS; Rose's mother had now lost 2 of her children to the virus, one to cirocsis brought on by alcoholism, and now her Rose might be facing prison.
Her mother was a sweet woman, but so old. Every time I visited Rose's home, her mother was in a chair staring out the window at the cars or the pedestrians. She always seemed to me like she was waiting for someone. There are pictures scattered all over her walls of when she and her husband were younger; they were a beautiful family with beautiful children. It was the 1950s, and Rose's mother must have anticipated so much. She wanted promise for her children; she saw Martin Luther King present his dream and she must have thought the problems of oppression were going away. She must have wished such things for her kids that she was never able to experience: better jobs, better opportunities for their children. But crack came, and from harsh desperation, her children fell prey to the plagues of impoverished DC. She began burying family members: her husband, her children, a grandchild. The pictures are ghosts of a promise that should have come true, and still she sits by the window. She waits. She wonders at her life, and the paths that Southeast DC has laid for her and her family. She walks them with the pride of a prisoner of war; someone who knows who she is and where she came from and that life was unfair but she gave it her best anyway. She looked all the obstacles square in the eye so they could see the strength behind the woman they were knocking down. Rose's mother waits by the window when I barge into the apartment for the second time that day, furious that her daughter isn't at court, and looks at me with tired eyes.
"I was wrong, I'm sorry. Rose never went to court, she was with her niece. I'm sorry, I didn't know."
Rose comes out of her room. She's clearly upset. I sit down on the couch because there's nothing for me to say. I'm pointlessly angry right now; Rose didn't run from the law. Her mother is simply exhausted and forgetful, trying to take responsibility for a 54 year old criminal daughter. Rose is mad at me for not waiting for her; Rose's mother is trying to explain that it's her own fault for steering me wrong; I'm trying to console an old woman and simultaneously enforce to Rose that when I say "be ready at 8:30," she better be ready at 8:30. There's a slight amount of chaos as Rose's voice begins to rise above mine; I start to lower my voice yet remain firm. We're always being told to speak "below" the client's voice level if they start to get seriously angry.
"I'm going to be here tomorrow at 9:00 am. 9, Rose. You and I are going to court tomorrow morning and we're just going to try this again."
"Uh-huh, I was- I was- Ms. Ellen wait, I was ready my mama didn't know but I was ready and and aaand I was ready and waiting, Ms. Ellen!" There's panic in Rose's voice and I hardly care.
Her mother is quiet again. She's back to her window. Outside a woman smokes a cigarette, ignoring a man walking by making crude remarks. She's back to her waiting game. Something better should come along, some new generation should do better than the last. With quiet dignity, she sighs to herself. Today both Rose and I have disappointed her.
"She's already got goin' to the court, Ms. Ellen."
Awesome. All Rose Shaw does is beg me for money for a bus fare, and now she somehow managed to get herself to court? She's running, I think to myself. She's trying to get out of this any way she can because there's a bench warrant out for her arrest and she knows she's going to jail. Last time Ms. Shaw's court date occurred, she was suddenly suicidal and checked herself into the hospital. I had half a mind to go to George Washington Hospital Center and ask if Rose Shaw was their newest patient.
Rose is a very demanding woman, and though she comes across initially as a sweet person, she knows how to get what she wants. It's a learned survival skill of people formerly on the streets, but it's difficult to deal with sometimes. In the end, she still ends up losing, but at least she can say she tried to get herself out of trouble. I have a hard time remembering to call her "Ms. Shaw," even though we're supposed to address all our consumers as "Ms." or "Mr." I always find myself saying "Rose." Today, she's made me late to court and I don't even know if she's absolutely there or if she skipped town.
I start driving to the Northwest quadrant of DC, and the raw edges of the Southeast slowly turn into polished office buildings and monuments. I do enjoy this part of my job; DC is a fascinating city, not only in its cultural contrasts, but the speed with which one can merely cross a street and go from a trashy neighborhood to multi-million dollar housing. I'm driving and it looks like rain, but the overcast clouds have made it cooler. My windows are down, and I'm pleasantly surprised to find myself glad I get this morning to myself, without having to hear Rose complain.
My car has become my second home. Community Connections requires all their employees to have cars with them every day in case they need to drive a consumer somewhere or make an emergency hospital visit, etc. At first, I was pretty bitter about not being able to metro into the city every day, but as a prisoner begins to embrace his prison and make it his home, my car started becoming a sanctuary of sorts for me. After a while, I was content to not call my car a prison and view it as an escape from the office. I could turn on my music, pray, cry, talk to myself out loud, or just process what my next move would be. DC traffic, however, is not an escape. It's not a sanctuary and it's not anything I want to encounter if I have to, and today, Rose Shaw was making me drive in the awful traffic to 500 Indiana Ave at 8:45 in the morning, right before that golden hour of 9:00 am. My pristine morning was shattered by sirens and horns from all directions.
Meter parking didn't start until 9:30, so I had to park in a garage and pay 17 dollars for the entire day. I decided I'd just metro back to work and leave my car at the courthouse, considering I needed to go back there later in the day.
Rose wasn't in court. In fact, Rose wasn't even on the docket for the courtroom she told me she'd be in. Rose's attorney wasn't on the docket, and there was nothing in the records at the information desk that said Ms. Rose Shaw had a hearing in room 318 at 9:30.
I'd wasted 2 hours of my day. Fuming, I stop quickly at Community Connections, where Unity Clinic had set up a free HIV testing booth. There were swarms of people there to get tested, which was good considering one in 20 adults in DC have the virus. Rose's sister had passed 2 weeks ago from full-blown AIDS; Rose's mother had now lost 2 of her children to the virus, one to cirocsis brought on by alcoholism, and now her Rose might be facing prison.
Her mother was a sweet woman, but so old. Every time I visited Rose's home, her mother was in a chair staring out the window at the cars or the pedestrians. She always seemed to me like she was waiting for someone. There are pictures scattered all over her walls of when she and her husband were younger; they were a beautiful family with beautiful children. It was the 1950s, and Rose's mother must have anticipated so much. She wanted promise for her children; she saw Martin Luther King present his dream and she must have thought the problems of oppression were going away. She must have wished such things for her kids that she was never able to experience: better jobs, better opportunities for their children. But crack came, and from harsh desperation, her children fell prey to the plagues of impoverished DC. She began burying family members: her husband, her children, a grandchild. The pictures are ghosts of a promise that should have come true, and still she sits by the window. She waits. She wonders at her life, and the paths that Southeast DC has laid for her and her family. She walks them with the pride of a prisoner of war; someone who knows who she is and where she came from and that life was unfair but she gave it her best anyway. She looked all the obstacles square in the eye so they could see the strength behind the woman they were knocking down. Rose's mother waits by the window when I barge into the apartment for the second time that day, furious that her daughter isn't at court, and looks at me with tired eyes.
"I was wrong, I'm sorry. Rose never went to court, she was with her niece. I'm sorry, I didn't know."
Rose comes out of her room. She's clearly upset. I sit down on the couch because there's nothing for me to say. I'm pointlessly angry right now; Rose didn't run from the law. Her mother is simply exhausted and forgetful, trying to take responsibility for a 54 year old criminal daughter. Rose is mad at me for not waiting for her; Rose's mother is trying to explain that it's her own fault for steering me wrong; I'm trying to console an old woman and simultaneously enforce to Rose that when I say "be ready at 8:30," she better be ready at 8:30. There's a slight amount of chaos as Rose's voice begins to rise above mine; I start to lower my voice yet remain firm. We're always being told to speak "below" the client's voice level if they start to get seriously angry.
"I'm going to be here tomorrow at 9:00 am. 9, Rose. You and I are going to court tomorrow morning and we're just going to try this again."
"Uh-huh, I was- I was- Ms. Ellen wait, I was ready my mama didn't know but I was ready and and aaand I was ready and waiting, Ms. Ellen!" There's panic in Rose's voice and I hardly care.
Her mother is quiet again. She's back to her window. Outside a woman smokes a cigarette, ignoring a man walking by making crude remarks. She's back to her waiting game. Something better should come along, some new generation should do better than the last. With quiet dignity, she sighs to herself. Today both Rose and I have disappointed her.
Intro
I decided to start blogging about all this. There's too much about this job that terrifies, thrills, satisfies, and leaves me wanting more to not document the events that happen each and every day.
First and foremost, I am a follower of Jesus Christ. Without Him, I am nothing. I am no one important; I'm not the smartest girl, I'm not the most talented, and if I seem to have things taken care of, it's only because my parents grounded into me the importance of planning ahead. I merely listened to their advice. I am here in Washington, DC because I honestly couldn't get a job anywhere else. The economy is horrible, and Community Connections, a mental health non-profit agency was the only organization kind enough to take a chance on a recent college grad looking for work. There's nothing special about my job; I'm not paid a lot of money, but I survive. I work with individuals who have a mental disorder as well as a criminal record. I spent a significant amount of time in court today, and have yet to catch up on my paperwork. In an effort to "go green," I decided rather than keep track of all the craziness on paper, I'd keep a blog. This isn't for anyone's benefit but my own, really. I need to stay sane one way or another and writing; pouring my life out and making sure I don't miss anything, seems to be the only way I can do that.
There are a lot of times I look at my clients and wonder how things got to be so bad. Everything from these people's living conditions, to their mannerisms to the way society rejects them as a whole, is quite upsetting. Last weekend was the hardest weekend I've experienced in a long time. One of my consumers got stabbed, another accused me of being involved in her neighborhood shooting, and a third needed help with the directions for her laxative medicine. I wanted to quit. I wanted to scream and lash out at everyone involved in hiring me in the first place, and ask them what possibly possessed them to say "yes" to me. I don't have qualifications, honestly. I'm a political science major who took human rights classes, wants to eventually work with refugees, and merely took this job because I was A. desperate to not move home, B. in need of an MSW and C. ready to prove to the world that I didn't need a man to take care of me; I could easily maintain myself. But last weekend, I have never cried so much or asked for help so much in my life. I couldn't be off the phone; I had to be around people or I thought I'd go crazy. I had to hear someone's voice, or get outside to be away from anything slightly resembling work. I resented DC, Community Connections, the crazy people with their crazy problems, and most of all, myself for being so stubborn and taking the job in the first place.
Monday came, and with Monday, a new morning arrived. I literally cannot explain the peace, but it was like my Jesus took the burdens of the weekend and allowed me to see that for some reason, known only to Him, I'd be able to work in DC and He was going to show me things I'd never seen. I would feel things I'd never experienced, and learn things I'd never be able to know had I not stepped out on faith and trusted that He had a plan I couldn't see.
Ms. Vanessa Walker is a big black woman. At 6'6", she is often confused for a transvestite and suffers from paranoia. She constantly tells me that her neighbors are jealous of her because she has two sons who don't get in trouble. Teenage boys from Anacostia who aren't involved in drugs or gangs are a rarity, and Ms. Walker is a good mother who has nothing but her sons. She is a churchwoman who praises Jesus on Sunday and is always sure to tell people that "God's got her back." Her sons' father was an army man and is still in prison, as far as she knows. She says she waits for him and won't be with any other man until he comes home. In it's own way, it's strangely romantic that she has a love for someone who left her and the boys. She talks about him often, and there's a whimsical sound to her voice when she tells me he'll be home soon. It's always a few more weeks, he was held up with something, the army does that you know.
Ms. Walker's smoking in my car, and I crack the windows. She's in my passenger's seat, and looks like a football player crammed into a stroller.
"Put the radio on. 104.1. I wanna hear me some gospel." Sure, I say. Gospel, why not? The cigarette smoke is killer, and though the temperature's in the 90s, I roll my windows all the way down.
"Ms. Ellen, do you think people are jealous of me?"
"I think you've got a lot going for you, and people admire you for all you've accomplished, especially when it comes to taking care of your children, Ms. Walker."
"Oh. See God's on my side, He's gon' strike down whoever got hate for me."
"I'm glad you believe in God, Ms. Walker. I do too."
"Mmhmm. Radio."
No one ever says please. Or thank you. Or anything else remotely polite, for that matter. Ms. Walker and I keep driving. Passing us are the new apartment buildings and single-family homes being built throughout the impoverished sections of DC. Mayor Fenty is a fan of gentrification, and though property value may increase, the poorest of the poor will still have nothing. And they know this. The Southeast side of DC is not as bad as it once was. The widespread outbreak of crack cocaine hit the streets of DC hard in the 80s and 90s and most of our clients at Community Connections have had some encounter with the drug. Clients have suffered significant trauma due to drug use or alcoholism and develop mental disorders due to trauma, rendering them unable to care for themselves. And while SSI and housing are nice fixes, the root of the sick cycle of the impoverished citizens' problems remain the filthy conditions breeding drug use and dealers, HIV/AIDS, and traumatic, scarring experiences.
Ms. Walker used crack and PCP in her teens, and used to party hard with dealers. She has been raped before and doesn't remember much, either from disconnecting the memories and blocking them or from drug use. But today, she is content to sit in my car on the way home, listen to gospel, and smoke her cigarette.
I'm tired, hot and smell like smoke. I do a quick summation of my life after college, and wonder how I got here, driving around a paranoid woman in the middle of the ghetto. Where did I go wrong? What else could I possibly be doing with my life? Maybe I wasn't good enough for anything else and I'm stuck here. Maybe I slacked too much in school and deserve this job. There's this lingering voice in the back of my head that says "there's a reason," but I ignore it and continue to revel in my pity party.
"Ms. Ellen, is you ok?"
Ms Walker never notices me; why is she starting to pay attention now?
"I'm alright Ms. Walker, I'm just thinking. Thanks for asking though, that's very thoughtful of you."
"Oh. You alright, huh? Well me too."
The radio is still on the gospel station, and the sun is still beating down and pouring in through my open windows. A new song begins, and a piano starts to play. I'm waiting for a choir to start singing and a preacher to start yelling like stereotypical gospel songs do, but there's a sweet voice instead that croons softly, and I'm a parched soul, drinking the song like it's water.
"Why should I feel discouraged, why should the shadows come,
Why should my heart be lonely, and long for heaven and home,
When Jesus is my portion? My constant friend is He:
His eye is on the sparrow, and I know He watches me;
His eye is on the sparrow, and I know He watches me."
I feel the tears overwhelm me. There's joy, peace, gratitude, love, patience and grace intermingled in those tears and I look over at Ms. Walker, throwing her smoke out the window and smiling softly to herself. Such a large person, and suddenly she's me, I am her, we're both helpless in our own ways and just as desperate as the next to be held, acknowledged, and fulfilled by our Creator. Maybe she's thinking of her soldier, or her sons, or the friends she's lost through the years to drugs and violence. But right now we both feel peace and we're both singing along to the antiquated hymn on the radio.
"I sing because I'm happy,
I sing because I'm free,
For His eye is on the sparrow,
And I know He watches me."
We are both sparrows. We are all helpless birds; the same hands that rescue her are the hands that rescue me, and we are both free.
First and foremost, I am a follower of Jesus Christ. Without Him, I am nothing. I am no one important; I'm not the smartest girl, I'm not the most talented, and if I seem to have things taken care of, it's only because my parents grounded into me the importance of planning ahead. I merely listened to their advice. I am here in Washington, DC because I honestly couldn't get a job anywhere else. The economy is horrible, and Community Connections, a mental health non-profit agency was the only organization kind enough to take a chance on a recent college grad looking for work. There's nothing special about my job; I'm not paid a lot of money, but I survive. I work with individuals who have a mental disorder as well as a criminal record. I spent a significant amount of time in court today, and have yet to catch up on my paperwork. In an effort to "go green," I decided rather than keep track of all the craziness on paper, I'd keep a blog. This isn't for anyone's benefit but my own, really. I need to stay sane one way or another and writing; pouring my life out and making sure I don't miss anything, seems to be the only way I can do that.
There are a lot of times I look at my clients and wonder how things got to be so bad. Everything from these people's living conditions, to their mannerisms to the way society rejects them as a whole, is quite upsetting. Last weekend was the hardest weekend I've experienced in a long time. One of my consumers got stabbed, another accused me of being involved in her neighborhood shooting, and a third needed help with the directions for her laxative medicine. I wanted to quit. I wanted to scream and lash out at everyone involved in hiring me in the first place, and ask them what possibly possessed them to say "yes" to me. I don't have qualifications, honestly. I'm a political science major who took human rights classes, wants to eventually work with refugees, and merely took this job because I was A. desperate to not move home, B. in need of an MSW and C. ready to prove to the world that I didn't need a man to take care of me; I could easily maintain myself. But last weekend, I have never cried so much or asked for help so much in my life. I couldn't be off the phone; I had to be around people or I thought I'd go crazy. I had to hear someone's voice, or get outside to be away from anything slightly resembling work. I resented DC, Community Connections, the crazy people with their crazy problems, and most of all, myself for being so stubborn and taking the job in the first place.
Monday came, and with Monday, a new morning arrived. I literally cannot explain the peace, but it was like my Jesus took the burdens of the weekend and allowed me to see that for some reason, known only to Him, I'd be able to work in DC and He was going to show me things I'd never seen. I would feel things I'd never experienced, and learn things I'd never be able to know had I not stepped out on faith and trusted that He had a plan I couldn't see.
Ms. Vanessa Walker is a big black woman. At 6'6", she is often confused for a transvestite and suffers from paranoia. She constantly tells me that her neighbors are jealous of her because she has two sons who don't get in trouble. Teenage boys from Anacostia who aren't involved in drugs or gangs are a rarity, and Ms. Walker is a good mother who has nothing but her sons. She is a churchwoman who praises Jesus on Sunday and is always sure to tell people that "God's got her back." Her sons' father was an army man and is still in prison, as far as she knows. She says she waits for him and won't be with any other man until he comes home. In it's own way, it's strangely romantic that she has a love for someone who left her and the boys. She talks about him often, and there's a whimsical sound to her voice when she tells me he'll be home soon. It's always a few more weeks, he was held up with something, the army does that you know.
Ms. Walker's smoking in my car, and I crack the windows. She's in my passenger's seat, and looks like a football player crammed into a stroller.
"Put the radio on. 104.1. I wanna hear me some gospel." Sure, I say. Gospel, why not? The cigarette smoke is killer, and though the temperature's in the 90s, I roll my windows all the way down.
"Ms. Ellen, do you think people are jealous of me?"
"I think you've got a lot going for you, and people admire you for all you've accomplished, especially when it comes to taking care of your children, Ms. Walker."
"Oh. See God's on my side, He's gon' strike down whoever got hate for me."
"I'm glad you believe in God, Ms. Walker. I do too."
"Mmhmm. Radio."
No one ever says please. Or thank you. Or anything else remotely polite, for that matter. Ms. Walker and I keep driving. Passing us are the new apartment buildings and single-family homes being built throughout the impoverished sections of DC. Mayor Fenty is a fan of gentrification, and though property value may increase, the poorest of the poor will still have nothing. And they know this. The Southeast side of DC is not as bad as it once was. The widespread outbreak of crack cocaine hit the streets of DC hard in the 80s and 90s and most of our clients at Community Connections have had some encounter with the drug. Clients have suffered significant trauma due to drug use or alcoholism and develop mental disorders due to trauma, rendering them unable to care for themselves. And while SSI and housing are nice fixes, the root of the sick cycle of the impoverished citizens' problems remain the filthy conditions breeding drug use and dealers, HIV/AIDS, and traumatic, scarring experiences.
Ms. Walker used crack and PCP in her teens, and used to party hard with dealers. She has been raped before and doesn't remember much, either from disconnecting the memories and blocking them or from drug use. But today, she is content to sit in my car on the way home, listen to gospel, and smoke her cigarette.
I'm tired, hot and smell like smoke. I do a quick summation of my life after college, and wonder how I got here, driving around a paranoid woman in the middle of the ghetto. Where did I go wrong? What else could I possibly be doing with my life? Maybe I wasn't good enough for anything else and I'm stuck here. Maybe I slacked too much in school and deserve this job. There's this lingering voice in the back of my head that says "there's a reason," but I ignore it and continue to revel in my pity party.
"Ms. Ellen, is you ok?"
Ms Walker never notices me; why is she starting to pay attention now?
"I'm alright Ms. Walker, I'm just thinking. Thanks for asking though, that's very thoughtful of you."
"Oh. You alright, huh? Well me too."
The radio is still on the gospel station, and the sun is still beating down and pouring in through my open windows. A new song begins, and a piano starts to play. I'm waiting for a choir to start singing and a preacher to start yelling like stereotypical gospel songs do, but there's a sweet voice instead that croons softly, and I'm a parched soul, drinking the song like it's water.
"Why should I feel discouraged, why should the shadows come,
Why should my heart be lonely, and long for heaven and home,
When Jesus is my portion? My constant friend is He:
His eye is on the sparrow, and I know He watches me;
His eye is on the sparrow, and I know He watches me."
I feel the tears overwhelm me. There's joy, peace, gratitude, love, patience and grace intermingled in those tears and I look over at Ms. Walker, throwing her smoke out the window and smiling softly to herself. Such a large person, and suddenly she's me, I am her, we're both helpless in our own ways and just as desperate as the next to be held, acknowledged, and fulfilled by our Creator. Maybe she's thinking of her soldier, or her sons, or the friends she's lost through the years to drugs and violence. But right now we both feel peace and we're both singing along to the antiquated hymn on the radio.
"I sing because I'm happy,
I sing because I'm free,
For His eye is on the sparrow,
And I know He watches me."
We are both sparrows. We are all helpless birds; the same hands that rescue her are the hands that rescue me, and we are both free.
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