willing and abel

For many, the Statue of Liberty is our nation's noblest symbol. The idea it personifies is arguably our culture’s highest aspiration, the paragon of our national panoply of civic virtues. But for Abel, the jutting diadem and emerald robes are marks of humiliation.

Abel has post-traumatic stress disorder, but he has never seen combat—at least not in the traditional sense. Instead, his PTSD is derived from trauma far more domestic: he was regularly sexually abused at home from his toddler years through preschool and kindergarten until finally being removed from the situation by the state. From as far back as he dares remember, foster placements and group homes are all he has known—slippery, shifting places where one does not get too comfortable.

Complicating his shallowly buried trauma, emerging erratically in fits of rage or tears or both, Abel also suffers from bi-polar disorder. It is not entirely unexpected, then, that Abel has difficulties dealing with the waves of anger that wash suddenly over him. Negotiating this relentless struggle with his emotions has taken him in and out of gangs, transitional placements, prison, homelessness … and he is only 23.

The room he was until recently renting from a downtown homeowner was more than he could afford. At $650 per month, he lasted only six weeks. On his last night, the 28^th of February, he confided in the landlord. The truth is that from there he was headed to wander the streets until dawn. In a moment of sympathy, the landlord asked if there was anything she could do. Abel replied that he would be grateful if he could rent the couch. He would pay her $200 per month for the opportunity.

But this was not the plush and cozy sofa before the fireplace, the central area of the family’s home life. It was a couch in the backyard, under the covered patio. There is no heat, no electricity, no restroom—just a discarded piece of second-hand furniture situated on an enclosed slab of concrete.

And so, sleeping at night in the yard through the rainy month of March and into April, Abel worked a position with a tax preparation firm. Dressed in a woman’s gown in the most highly visible spot the management could nose out, drawing attention to himself with the waving of a sign painted in bold red lettering at a busy intersection, Abel worked 8 three-hour shifts per month, getting paid $8.75 per hour.

Not surprisingly, the mere act of putting on his costume filled Abel with dread and irritability. Walking out to the patch of turf in front of the McDonald’s where he held his sign, he wouldn’t even be in position before the honking would start, the caterwauls, and the long, amused stares of the hundreds, the thousands who passed him by each hour. The job didn’t even quite pay enough for his couch.

Abel has recently enrolled in an anger management program. “There are other people who have this problem,” he told me the other night, realizing for the first time that he is not alone. “I’m doing good, right?” Behind his tattoos, his prison record, his history of violence, he is in many ways the most innocent of children. We stood beneath a sky full of stars, and for a moment the city was quite and still. “You’re proud of me, right?”

Abel has been betrayed so severely so many times by so many of the adults in his life—what he wants more than anything in the world is to be loved, to feel some semblance of dignity and worth.

After April 15^th, the tax preparers had no more use for Abel, so they let him go. And a few days ago, Abel was told by the owner of his couch that he had to move along, that he couldn’t stay there anymore, that there was need to have three “full rent paying tenants”, and that this was impossible so long as he was staying on the couch. The landlord communicated all this through a text. She gave him until Friday to pack his duffle bag and disappear.

environmental justice

Most of us can readily identify some of the reasons why people in our community end up living in poverty: low academic achievement, catastrophic illness, substance abuse, lack of employment, poor life choices, immigration status, mental or physical disabilities … the list could go on and on. However, the interesting point to recognize about this particular catalog is that each item is an example of individual characteristics.

What can be more challenging to see are the structural elements that underlie poverty, the elements that are beyond the pale of the individual. For example, lack of access to quality education, shortage of employment opportunities, absence of an adequate safety net, racism. These issues all contribute to poverty, but they are elements of the society in which we live and as such transcend any particular individual.

To illustrate the difference between these two categories, let us examine the issue of employment. If someone is having a difficult time getting work, we might, if we are looking at the situation from an individualistic perspective, proscribe a vocational-training program. But if there are not enough jobs for all those who want them, then at best the person who gets the training merely takes a job from someone else. Until the structural problem of unemployment is dealt with, vocational training is more or less a shell game ... or a game of musical chairs. 

This last metaphor—that of musical chairs—is particularly apt with regard to employment because it highlights the fact that the system is designed in such a way as to guarantee losers. There simply aren't (and never will be under the current system) enough jobs for everyone. It is one thing to lose at a game of musical chairs, but losing in the job market can lead to stress, depression, lack of basic needs, and ultimately, destitution.

With this distinction in mind, one of poverty’s structural realities, a reality that is easy to overlook (even though it is literally in plain sight) has to do with the physical environment of the poor. It goes without saying that all communities have both assets and deficits. For example: spread throughout a community you might find both spacious parks and toxic storage facilities. Now, most people would consider a toxic storage facility a deficit, but it might be argued that while this is true, we need it, nevertheless (toxic substances must be stored somewhere). The question we then must ask is, Where shall such a facility be located? And with this question we find ourselves in the domain of environmental justice.

Environmental justice can be defined as the equitable distribution of assets and deficits throughout a community. To see how this plays out (or rather, its opposite: environmental injustice), one could do little better than to take a drive through the neighborhood in which Sacred Heart is located, and then do the same through the adjacent neighborhood of Willow Glen. Features that would be apparent in Sacred Heart’s neighborhood are:

 

·       High concentration of liquor stores (and the accompanying crime and violence this breeds)

·       Lack of fresh produce and nutritious food (leading to poor health, including obesity and diabetes)

·       Abundance of cheap motels (attracting prostitution and the parolees who are sent there on being released from prison)

·       Broken storm drains (which leads to standing water, breeding mosquitoes and the diseases they bring, such as West Nile virus)

·       Dearth of parks (limiting the opportunities for children to play and get exercise safely)

·       Mixed industrial and residential zoning (and accompanying contaminated soil and water)

·       One-way expressways (restricting pedestrians’ ability to move about their own neighborhood while allowing other San Jose residents speedy thoroughfares to and from the freeway)

As we contemplate these environmental features, the question we pose is this: Why is deficit upon deficit crammed into one neighborhood, while more prosperous neighborhoods abound primarily in assets? While working to address the challenges facing our neighbors in need, we continue to analyze the whole problem, for to ignore entire segments of our neighbors’ plight would result in inadequate solutions.