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.
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
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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