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.
Thursday, July 8, 2010
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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