#5
What are we to think of [the poor]? Disapproval and condescension no longer apply, so what outlook makes sense?
Guilt, you may be thinking warily. Isn't that what we're supposed to feel? But guilt doesn't go anywhere near far enough; the appropriate emotion is shame- shame at our own dependency, in this case, on the underpaid labor of others. When someone works for less pay than she can live on- when, for example, she goes hungry so that you can eat more cheaply and conveniently- then she has made a great sacrifice for you, she has made you a gift of some part of her abilities, her health, and her life. The “working poor” as they are approvingly termed, are in fact the major philanthropists or our society. They neglect their own children so that the children of others will be cared for; they live in substandard housing so that other homes will be shiny and perfect; they endure privation so that inflation will be low and stock prices high. To be a member of the working poor is to be an anonymous donor, a nameless benefactor, to everyone else.
Barbara Enrenreich,
Nickel and Dimed-On (Not) Getting by in America. p. 220-221
Tuesday
Today I saw an advertisement at the train stop that said, "Now that we can do anything, what will we do?" It was for a new exhibit on technology at the Museum of Contemporary Art in Chicago.
I saw this sign after sitting in on a conference in between the student leaders of 12 Chicago Public Schools (CPS) with the CEO of the CPS, Arne Duncan. These students were specifically selected from schools that were inundated this fall with students from failed schools that closed in the spring. I was one of the only white people in the room.
As soon as Arne walked into the room with the students, the tension level rose. The "dialogue" quickly escalated to preaching, yelling, and crying. The adults and student organizers walked around the room trying to make everyone listen to each other. Arne ended up not finishing any of his thoughts because the students continuously interrupted him. As has been my experience in meetings like this one, talk soon moved to the subject of racism and low achievement due to low expectations and negative press.
I am not discounting any of the things said at today's meeting. But I have heard them all before, at meetings, poetry slams, in books, in the newspaper. It feels like we're stuck, not being able to see beyond our past because we want more -I can't find the word- retribution? Although meeting with authorities is good, putting the weight on them of fixing all the problems you can see isn't realizing your responsibility to yourself and the people around you. You have a responsibility to change the way you live first.
Seeing something that said, "We can do anything" after experiencing frustration and anxiety for an hour and a half in this meeting made me laugh. First of all, I laughed because the people saying this have the immense privilege (or ignorance) to be able to think such a thing. They didn't go to an all black school on the South Side. They didn't have violence in their classroom, and walk to school in fear. All the students at this meeting do. I read in Barbara Ehrenreich's book Nickel and Dimed on the train, "In poverty, as in certain propositions in physics, starting conditions are everything." Because these students starting positions are so different than mine, or the makers of this sign, it feels to me like they're still at the starting line. They didn't even have the vocabulary in the meeting to fully express themselves. It was painful to me.
It was timely for me to see that sign to realize what the meeting made me feel. It made me feel hopeless for community with others, for reconciliation, for peace or understanding. It made me feel powerless to do anything. Like I've lost all my time.
I haven't though. We have time as long as we're willing to change. As my friend Patti says, "Everything is about relationship." I am more honest and true to myself when I bring my feelings and thoughts to another individual with whom I have a personal relationship. Together, we can begin to understand each other and change our actions accordingly. True relationships create accountability. There's no other way to make true change- I believe. True grass-roots, person by person, starting with myself. And that gives me hope. It almost makes me feel like we can do anything.
#4
Keep walking, though there's no place to get to.
Don't try to see through the distances. That's not for human beings.
Move within, but don't move the way that fear makes you move.
Today, like every other day, we wake up empty and frightened.
Don't open the door to the study
and begin reading. Take down a musical instrument.
Let the beauty we love be what we do.
There are hundreds of ways to kneel and kiss the ground.
-Rumi
in the news
Every morning when I get up, I read the news. Lately, I’ve been looking for good places to get news on Africa, specifically Kenya. It is not easy. My home page is The New York Times- Africa. I am always amazed by the lack of new articles on this page. There is on average one article written by the Times related to the continent of Africa per day. Most of the articles are about political turmoil or war. Few are concerning education, disease, or death.
Why is so hard to tell ourselves that people are dying? Why does that seem to escape the consciousness of the entire media on a regular basis, let alone the average citizen of America? Is it really that hard to see beyond ourselves?
Yesterday there were tornado clouds in and around Chicago. This, to me, was entirely unexpected. The tornado warning system of the city was quickly engaged and the sirens in our neighborhood began to wail. My whole family ran down into our basement. My sisters and brother all laid down on the bed and watched the television for updates.
Isn’t the media just like the tornado response system? And the way my family reacted to the sirens, isn’t it the same way that Americans respond to the media? The media warns of impending doom, making a disaster out of everything. They make sure the news gets to everyone so that the commercials arrive with it. The sirens go off and we run to protect ourselves, our wallets, our health, or our reputation.
I’m tired of the ignorance that this warning system media keeps us in. Not only do we not know the truth about what’s going on around the world, we’ve become obsessed with the fact that it might kill us, make us slightly uncomfortable, or –God forbid- fat.
So, let’s do this: Let’s seek the real truth. What’s happening to other people just like us on the other side of the world? They’re dying. What’s happening to people down the street? They’re dying too. This seems so dramatic, but I believe it’s true. I believe that our response should be to look beyond ourselves when we see these real disasters. We need to respond by an unprecedented giving of our resources, our time, ourselves. This is only way that we can truly understand the lives of the poor, sick, and destitute.
Interesting fact, I just learned how to spell dying correctly.
#3
The story is told of a very pious Jewish couple. They had married with great love, the love never died. Their greatest hope was to have a child so their love could walk the earth with joy.
Yet there were difficulties. And since they were pious, they prayed and prayed and prayed. Along with considerable other efforts, lo and behold, the wife conceived. When she conceived, she laughed louder than Sarah laughed when she conceived Isaac. And the child lept in her womb more joyously than John lept in the womb of Elizabeth when Mary visited her. And nine months later a delightful little boy came rumbling into the world.
They named him Mordecai. He was rambunctious, zestful, gulping down the days and dreaming through the nights. The sun and moon were his toys. He grew in age and wisdom and grace, until it was time to go to the synagogue and learn the Word of God.
The night before his studies were to begin, his parents sat Mordecai down and told him how important the Word of God was. They stressed that without the Word of God Mordecai would be autumn leaf in winter's wind. He listened wide-eyed.
Yet the next day he never arrived at the synagogue. Instead he found himself in the woods, swimming in the lake and climbing in the trees.
When he came home that night, the news had spread throughout the village. Everyone knew of his shame. His parents were beside themselves. They did not know what to do.
So they called in the behavior modificationists to modify Mordecai's behavior, until there was no behavior of Mordecai that was not modified. Nevertheless, the next day he found himself in the woods, swimming in the lake and climbing the trees.
So they called in the psychoanalysts, who unblocked Mordecai's blockages, so there were no more blocks for Mordecai to be blocked by. Nevertheless, he found himself the next day, swimming in the lake and climbing the trees.
His parents grieved for their beloved son. There seemed to be no hope.
At this same time the Great Rabbi visited the village. And the parents said, "Ah! Perhaps the Rabbi." So they took Mordecai to the Rabbi and told him their tale of woe. The Rabbi bellowed, "Leave the boy with me, and I will have a talking with him."
It was bad enough that Mordecai would not go to the synagogue. But to leave their beloved son alone with this lion of a man was terrifying. However, they had come this far, and so they left him.
Now Mordecai stood in the hallway, and the Great Rabbi stood in his parlor. He beckoned, "Boy, come here." Trembling, Mordecai came forward.
And the Great Rabbi picked him up and held him silently against his heart.
His parents came to get Mordecai, and they took him home. The next day he went to the synagogue to learn the Word of God. And when he was done, he went to the woods. And the Word of God became one with the words of the woods, which became one with the words of Mordecai. And he swam in the lake. And the Word of God became one with the words of the lake, which became one with the words of Mordecai. And he climbed the trees. And the Word of God became one with the words of the trees, which became one with the words of Mordecai.
And Mordecai himself grew up to become a great man. People who were seized with panic came to him and found peace. People who were without anybody came to him and found communion. People with no exits came to him and found a way out. And when they came to him he said, "I first learned the Word of God when the Great Rabbi held me silently against his heart."
John Shea, Starlight (New York: Crossroad, 1993), pages 115-117. Originally told by Reuben Gold of the Hasidic tradition, reworked by Shea.
airy-zone-i-yeah
Here's my favorite pics from my recent trip to Tucson...
Justin and I swimming it up.
Toli-Molies
Cactus bloom
Amy and I hiking to our deaths. Not literally.
hiking
I know this may sound corny- but a think that the journey illustration for life is a really good one. I went on a huge hike yesterday, way up in the Santa Catalina Mountains just north of Tucson, Arizona. I love hiking, I love getting tired and dirty and sweaty for the sake of viewing some of God's greatest ideas. It's almost always worth it. And who doesn't love trail mix?
I think that our hike yesterday really revved me up for more than just that though. It got me excited about life. After taking a hot dirt trail up to the top of a canyon, my Aunt Amy and Uncle Justin and I decided to take hike down the river. We had their two dogs with us- Guschen and Toli. Hiking down a river is not easy work. In the arid desert climate of Arizona if you ever have to get out of the water you're risking thorns and pricks up the wazoo. Not literally.
As we hiked down the canyon, each of us went at our own pace, finding our own way down the river, sometimes correcting ourselves and looking up to see how others went down, sometimes getting ahead jumping from rock to rock.
But the river isn't safe. Toli, the smaller and younger of the dogs accidently got caught in a rush of water and went down a little falls head first on his back. I yelled and Justin jumped into the river at the bottom, waiting for himi to come out. He didn't come up out of the water for more than twenty seconds. I thought he was a goner for sure. Justin stuck his hand way under the waterfall, felt fur and pulled out a soaked and shivering Toli. He climbed up the rocks and laid down shivering in my arms for the net ten minutes. After recovering, we kept moving.
Further down the river, there were bigger and bigger falls. Toli avoided the water like the plague. I was a little more conscious of my footing as the noise of the water grew louder. Suddenly it became apparent that we weren't going to be able to get down the river. The canyon walls rose straight out of the deep water ahead of us. We tried multiple routes up the mountain, the first few getting us stuck, scratched and miserable.
We started back up the river, retracing our steps, not knowing what else to do. But getting to the top would take too much time and we'd be stuck in the dark. We tried one last time to head up the ridge, towards the top, hoping we would find the top. This time we found rockier land that we could travel through without getting hammered by plants and cacti. At the top, we had to find a way to rock climb without gear up a little ledge, the last person throwing the dogs up. I headed up further towards the top of the ridge ahead of the others and suddenly there was dusty trail in sight. I started yelling and exclaiming my joy. Amy, Justin and the dogs rushed up.
We were relieved. As the headed round the first corner in the bend we looked down towards the valley to catch a blood red Arizona sunset, welcoming us back.
I loved the hike. It's not that it was easy, or particularly fun every minute. But it was an adventure. We got lucky. Toli got lucky. We ended the day on two feet- headed home for a huge dinner. That's how every story should end, so I'll leave it there- a huge dinner.
#2
And so, like runaway slaves, we either flee our own reality or manufacture a false self which is mostly admirable, mildly prepossessing, and superficially happy. We hide what we know or feel ourselves to be (which we assume to be unacceptable and unlovable) behind some kind of appearance which we hope will be more pleasing. We hide behind pretty faces which we put on for the benefit of our public. And in time we may even come to forget that we are hiding, and think that our assumed pretty face is what we really look like.
Simon Tugwell, The Beatitudes, p. 130
new orleans... musings
I thought I'd put up a series of thoughts and reactions I had to my time working at a free Health Clinic- Common Ground. (www.cghc.org) Here you go!
Reactions and Reflections from New Orleans, 2006
Robertson Class of 2009 Domestic Summer
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May 14, 2006
When the hot air hits your body when you walk out of the door, when you smell the dirt, the garbage, and everything left behind- then you’ve arrived. That’s what welcomes you to New Orleans. The garbage. I thought that it was bad in the French Quarter, where bottles upon bottles fill the gutters that already reek of rotting leftovers. We had to watch our step in the dark, exploring the narrow streets for the first time. The smells were shocking after the air-conditioned chill of the airport.
But that was nothing. Cheryl, a family friend volunteered to take us on a quick tour of the Ninth Ward. I kept on saying, “Wow” and “Oh my goodness” because it was bad. The garbage piles coming out of buildings with broken windows became larger and larger until suddenly there were cars with piles of trash on top of them. There were schools with piles of garbage outside of them larger than the houses further down the street. The garbage piles grew and grew until I was sure that this was as bad as it got.
And then we crossed over the bridge into the lower ninth ward. Here, the garbage wasn’t on the curbs. The houses were the garbage. Fallen, torn by the storm, collapsed, every building had a different death it seemed. Every building had died. No survivors. The whole of the Lower Ninth is garbage, ready to be bulldozed off by FEMA, or the city’s contractors, or the National Guard, or whoever has the hot potato of blame at the time.
But the one thing that I know is true is that New Orleans is not garbage. That sounds silly, but I know that there are people that owned that garbage, that loved it or built it or painted it. And as the piles of garbage grow larger, so do the losses of the invisible creators and owners of that garbage. The more garbage I see, the less those people have to live on.
So why am I here? To clear the garbage. To find the people that made or wanted or lost that garbage. Not to get them new garbage that will supposedly help them, but to get them out from behind all of this junk into new lives. I sound arrogant. Part of me says that I cannot do any of that. But I can help, or start, or hope. So here is my beginning- the garbage. See it, understand it, clear it, and find the people who know that the garbage that now defines the streets of New Orleans was the very same matter that filled the lives of the people who are trying to recover from the storm.
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September 4, 2006
Not much of the garbage in New Orleans was gone by the time I left. But some was, and people are working to clear more, both emotional and real. I gutted one house in New Orleans during a day off from my work at the clinic. Five feet in front of the house we were gutting sat another house that had floated from three blocks away. About a month after gutting, I returned to the neighborhood. Amazingly, FEMA had completely cleared the displaced house from the middle of the street. I couldn’t even recognize the street without it.
Though this garbage resulted from one of the thousands of houses uprooted from the storm, the clearing of this particular rubble gave me hope. Seeing a street clear of glass and debris, with homes on either side, roofs still blue with FEMA tarps and new FEMA trailers in the yards, was beautiful. Though imperfect, and nothing like it used to be, this street is home to people who are reclaiming their city.
May 21, 2006
Two nights in a row now there has been a homeless man lying in front of the entrance to my house when I walk in at night. There is a logical explanation for this. My home used to be a homeless shelter, where presumably this man used to live.
When Hurricane Katrina, ripped through New Orleans, the Brantley Center, a six-story building right off of Canal Street in the main business district downtown, was barely damaged. Only a couple of windows broke. But, the storm had a more subtle effect on the building. Where it used to house dozens, sometimes hundreds of homeless people every night, now it functions as temporary housing for volunteers that come down to help rebuild from the storm. There are no services offered for homeless persons in the building, supposedly because no services are needed for the supposedly smaller number of homeless people in the city since the storm.
Some, of course, have returned, including the man who has blocked my way home two nights in a row. It’s easy for me to recognize this need, this problem in the city. The problem is literally lying on my doorstep.
But I feel like the one that’s actually in the way. I am taking the bed of a person that needs it more than I do, because they have no other bed. I’m trying to help, but right now, I cannot sleep, eat, or work because I am overwhelmed by my surroundings. I’m just an observer, a helpless observer who’s in the way.
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September 4, 2006
The storm made many people observers. Few of these people have the chance of seeing the city with their own eyes and exploring the remains on their own terms. I had that chance. I am thankful. After returning from New Orleans, and passing the anniversary of Hurricane Katrina with a flurry of media attention on the city, I have come to recognize the importance of being a good observer. Observers can share truth with those who cannot see it for themselves.
And thankfully, my internship in New Orleans allowed me to do more than observe. My involvement with the Common Ground Health Clinic gave me the chance to respond. This is an even more rare opportunity. Looking back, I feel blessed to not only have seen the damage, but also to have helped repair it in a real way. I may not have given the homeless man a bed, but I helped restore dignity to many poor people in New Orleans through providing them with quality, personal healthcare.
May 24, 2006
Yesterday, I told myself the following: Okay then, you won’t change the world.
This is type of declaration is uncharacteristic for me. Not only was I frustrated with the work I was doing for the clinic at that time, I didn’t feel like my work had any effect. No really, why am I, of all people, updating a resource guide of healthcare in New Orleans? Because I’m available and honestly, I’m the best they’ve got. But I am neither satisfied with my performance in this task nor with the poor manner in which the task fits my strengths. But, I do not get to pick what is needed. It is just needed. Honestly, I would prefer to doubt that this is needed, but I am not the expert, I got here ten days ago.
Back to the point- I feel pointless. I do not know why I am here. The work is hard, working is hard, and seeing the effects is impossible when I am working behind a computer. It is so obvious to me that the needs are great. There are HUGE disparities. There are gigantic problems. It feels like my skills and what I have to offer are so completely lacking in the face of these needs. I am so small and unknowledgeable about the city and the healthcare system and the world. And I am so impatient.
So that is it. The problems are too big for me. I cannot change them, at least not yet. So yesterday I tried to quit. I gave up hope for a second. I released myself from the one thing that I am here to do- help- because it is too hard. But in my heart, I know that this is entirely unacceptable.
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September 4, 2006
Be the change that you want to see in the world.
-Ghandi
Too often I see people giving up on themselves and their chance to change the world. This became most real to me when I gave up on myself. It was then that it became clear to me that this hopelessness, this loss of self-confidence is what I what to change. In short, if you give people hope in themselves, they can change the world. Therefore I must first embody this change of heart. So, I could continue to approach change as if I cannot make a damn bit of difference on my own, which is fairly accurate. Or, I can make change bigger than myself. I can approach change as a effort to empower other to view themselves as change agents, to say, “Hey, we can change the world.”
June 3, 2006
I had my first patient yesterday. Mr. Gibson came into the clinic to get his lab results from an earlier appointment. While he was waiting to see the doctor, he asked me where he could get an eye exam. I began calling places right away. Even after working on updating the clinic’s resource guide for three weeks, it took me over half an hour on the phone to find out that there were no free eye exams in the city of New Orleans. The cheapest eye exam on the West Bank is $50, and it is only this cheap because the clinic has specifically asked this doctor to make a discount for our patients. I figured this out after Mr. Gibson left the clinic.
I had gotten his phone number while he was still at the clinic. He had said that he was available for an appointment any time that week. I told him that I would help him out, got his info and suddenly, he was my patient. I couldn’t just let him leave, but it didn’t occur to me that holding myself to this standard of care would immediately make his healthcare my responsibility. But it did. So I made an appointment for him the next day for $50 dollars. I called him at home and told him, but he didn’t have $50. Uh oh.
By this point, I was willing to give my own money to bring this man to the ophthalmologist. Luckily, many people who work at the clinic feel the same way. The clinic itself runs a direct action fund, wherein Mr. Gibson, or any patient, can have outside services paid for or subsidized by the clinic. After discussing his case with other clinic workers, I (who had been there for a measly three weeks) was given the responsibility to determine whether or not Mr. Gibson was eligible for this type of aid. I decided he was, due to the complications in his vision that could be caused by his diabetes, and of course, his inability to pay. So I got $50 out of the days’ donation jar and put it in my pocket. And the next day I got up early to bring the money to the eye clinic on the West Bank before going to the clinic.
Mr. Gibson had his eye appointment. He was a diabetic, had implants and was supposed to have an appointment before the storm. And he had it today, ten months later.
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September 4, 2006
Looking back, I realize that I did not do enough for Mr. Gibson. I assume that he went to his appointment, but the clinic never heard back from him or the ophthalmologist’s office, to my knowledge. I told him that if he needed help to buy new glasses, he could come back to the clinic. I gave him my phone number.
But, I should have gone to the appointment with him, brought a copy of his medical files to the appointment, made sure that we got a copy of the visit’s results in his file back at the clinic. I should have followed up with phone calls and even a visit to his home two weeks or a month later. It makes me sick that I don’t even know if Mr. Gibson had the money to pay for the gas to drive to the doctor.
I will have more Mr. Gibsons. Many more. With them I hope that I can retain the same enthusiasm that I had for helping to treat my first patient. In addition to enthusiasm, the experience of having many patients will enhance my ability to help every new one. Right now, I only wish that I had the piece of scrap paper out of my scrubs pocket with Mr. Gibson’s phone number scribbled crookedly across the paper from that day. Since I cannot have that, I only hope that Mr. Gibson had his eye appointment, and that my regret will fuel a commitment to my future patients that ensures their health instead of my own sense of accomplishment.
June 8, 2006
A woman walked into the clinic today and asked us to tape a five-dollar bill that she had that was ripped in half. I love the clinic. But our patients are so poor that their money doesn’t even work.
At about the same time a young man walked in and asked for directions on how to get to the traffic court. I am happy to know that we our doors are open to the community and we are trusted. But our neighborhood, Algiers, suffers a higher rate of crime than much of the rest of the city. I am reminded of when a teenager shot a cop two blocks from the clinic and the same police that pulled over this young man sped past our block in a stampede of sirens.
A couple came for the second time and remembered my name and said hello and goodbye as they left. I am touched that we are developing individual relationship with our patients and growing roots in the community. But people come here because the healthcare system, the corporate world, and the government have failed to help them.
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September 4, 2006
Common Ground Health Clinic is making a difference in Algiers and New Orleans. But we have stepped into a corrupt, disheveled, and unfair world that has demanded our existence, a world that should not exist according to our values. So we are stuck, existing because we must, when we shouldn’t have to.
