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. 

my fellow americans

Last year, in this our Valley of Heart's Delight, a total of 90 million meals were provided to those neighbors of ours who were struggling to feed themselves. 90 million meals. Can you imagine? This is truly a remarkable feat … but not because of how much food was made available.

In order to have fed all those in need—the children and adults, the seniors, the disabled, those working two and three jobs without a living wage—238 million meals were required. 90 million were provided. The additional food that was needed, food that was stored in warehouses and piled high on the shelves of grocery stores but not made available to the hungry, is enough to feed the full population of Sunnyvale for an entire year.

We have long thought of America as the most bounteous of nations … [t]hat hunger and malnutrition should persist in a land such as ours is embarrassing and intolerable. More is at stake here than the health and well being of [millions of] American children…. Something like the very honor of American democracy is involved.

(President Richard Nixon, May 6, 1969)

I am not in the habit of invoking President Nixon for moral authority, but there it is. And I find it extremely discomfiting to be put into ethical defensiveness by his words … yet I can’t dispute them.

So where did the 90 million meals that our community provided come from?

· 41% came from food stamps

· 21% came from soup kitchens and pantries

· 19% came from school nutrition programs

· 15% came from Women, Infants, and Children (WIC)

· 4% came from other sources

Over the course of 2009, an average of 2500 Californians lost their jobs each day. At Sacred Heart we have gone from serving 15,000 people per month to 26,000. The needs are crushing, and there is no way we could continue to provide for these burgeoning numbers without the support of our community. But the needs have outstripped what our traditional sources of support are able to provide.

Our pantry program is now relying on the temporary influx of federal stimulus resources to augment our established food sources. Nearly 10,000 of those we now serve each month are receiving food provided specifically from the federal stimulus program. However, this source of supplemental nutrition is scheduled to end abruptly on September 30th of this year. The hunger of those who are coming to us with nowhere else to turn knows no such abrupt cessation.

Ultimately, we must recognize that neither we, nor all the non-profit feeding programs in the valley combined, can come close to ending hunger in our community. Food stamps, school meals, and WIC all play critical roles in providing nourishment to some of the most vulnerable members of our society. If we can agree with President Nixon that the hunger of our children, the elderly, the disabled—of anyone—is intolerable, then we need to strengthen the entire safety net, not merely one strand.

denial

 

            It was Monday morning, and the open can of Campbell’s in her left hand read Creamy Potato and Garlic in lighthearted lettering. With her free hand, scraped and scabbed as it was, Sheila used a toothpick in lieu of a utensil. By the dozens people passed her by, entering and exiting Sacred Heart, hungry and hopeful for something—anything—to help them survive another day. Eating the cold chowder, thick as a shake, Sheila mumbled unintelligibly between each oily bite.

When I approached her that morning, Sheila had eaten about a third of her chowder, and now it was becoming difficult for her to reach the remaining contents with her paltry piece of wood. She pressed her knuckles against the rim of the can, holding the thing at an angle while trying to skewer the congealed lumps of starch. She seemed determined to use the bit of timber as a spoon or ladle, and it was painful to watch her frustration mount with every failed attempt. The roosters kept behind the house that adjoins our parking lot were crowing emphatically—it was unnerving.

Sheila’s face was furrowed with the telltale trenching of one who has been on the streets for far longer than the stint of a temporary setback. Her hair was a tangled nest, her skin dry and brittle. She spoke in rapid bursts of anguished nonsense while her eyes rattled around in their sockets looking everywhere but at the person she might be addressing.

“Can you call fluoride?” she said quickly, suddenly somehow lunging her arm and leg at me without warning. I had no idea what she meant.

“I’m sorry?” I asked, squinting at her mouth to assist in my comprehension.

“Can you call for a ride?”

“Oh,” I said. “You need a ride?”

“That’s what I’m trying to tell you,” she retorted, without a hint of eye contact or exasperation.

“OK. Got it. Sure.”

I took out my cell phone, and Sheila removed her foot from her shoe. Peeling away her stocking, she showed me a foot that was desperately malformed. The toes were shriveled and fused, and the foot itself bent sharply at a right angle. It looked partially crushed. I shuddered and nodded at it.

“See,” she said softly, speaking it seemed both to me and to herself. “This is what they did to me.”

I called the number she recited and spoke briefly with someone by the name of Abraham (although I have reason to believe that this was not his real name). The conversation went absolutely nowhere. I explained that I didn't know Sheila, and although Abraham gave no indication that it was peculiar for me to be placing the call, the exchange ended unresolved with Sheila picking up her pile of odds and ends and traipsing across our lot and up the street.

As she disappeared from view, the rooster crowed again.

a room of his own

Helping Kyle move from his more-or-less agreeable cottage to a downtown residential motel was a morning cheerlessly spent. The move itself was simple—all Kyle’s belongings fit easily into the back of a minivan. It was the circumstances under which he was forced from his home that were so dispiriting.

Carrying the first of only three loads from the curb to his second-storey unit, I did my best to hide my disappointment upon entering his new place. Kyle explained that he had been there for four days, a fact I confirmed based on the number of Slurpee cups on the windowsill. The walls were pitted, punched, and marred by the hideous streaks of what appeared to be some sort of sauce or oil. The bed—a drooping, uninspired mattress cowering close to the fudge-colored shag—was squeezed into the room, leaving only a narrow catwalk around the perimeter. And even this walkway was clogged with boxes of laundry, books, dingy couch cushions, and the inner-workings of a couple walkie-talkies. Sinking onto his mattress, Kyle sat and stared.

“I don’t understand,” he said softly. “I work hard, and things keep getting worse.” Then in a burst of emotion he shouted through grit teeth, “I can’t keep doing this!”

This large complex of ramshackle rooms, referred to quaintly in painted letters above the main entrance as an Inn, features a community kitchen and a would-be progressive co-ed latrine. Walking into the latter after unloading my first armful of items, I was confronted without ceremony by an uneven bank of lackluster urinals. Beyond these was an array of creaking stalls, and set up opposite them, a row of yellowed washbasins. I tried to imagine calling this home.

Then I saw the pair of shower booths at the far end of the room. As I approached them (out of morbid curiosity, to be sure), I discovered that between them was posted a patronizing restroom code of conduct on copy paper warped by moisture. Hung with opaque vinyl curtains, the narrow showers were dank and dim and featured grout freckled by black mold. This is where Kyle will step every time he wants to clean himself.

I arrived back in his unit with my second armful of inside-out clothing and HAMM radio magazines. “I’m sorry,” he began. He looked at me with his small, close-set eyes: “You know I don’t want to ask you for anything,” and again he paused; “but I’m out of food.”

Kyle has a learning disability. He has extremely low-functioning fine motor skills that make it difficult for him to button his shirt and tie his shoes. And he began his first bout of homelessness at age 12 when he fled an abusive foster home.

In sixth grade, after being hit over the head with a bottle by the woman who was responsible for caring for him, Kyle sought refuge beneath a freeway onramp. For a while this is where he slept, and when hunger would get the best of him he would scurry back and forth across the freeway to scavenge food from behind a Safeway.

Eventually a concerned woman who saw Kyle running across the onramp picked him up and took him to Child Protective Services. For the next six years he was shuttled between various group homes, until at age 18 he was once again relegated to the streets.

Now Kyle works as a security guard. His willingness to patrol deserted buildings and quiet complexes at odd hours has kept him employed through the recession despite his lack of a high school diploma or any otherwise saleable skill. His shift has lately been from 8:00P.M. till 4:00A.M., and at 25 years old, his work schedule, his natural difficulty with socializing, and his seclusion in an inhospitable living situation render him effectively isolated from the rest of the community. It is a lonely existence, and it was taking its toll on him.

Upon hauling up the final item—a disassembled futon—we took stock of the dismal accommodations. A man with a long beard poked his head into the room without a word and in an instant was gone just as mysteriously as he had appeared. Kyle then explained to me how it had come to this.

A month ago, Kyle’s former landlord had threatened to raise his rent from $700 to $1000 per month. When Kyle protested, the landlord offered him the opportunity to render the additional $300 in labor. Kyle, not knowing his rights, agreed. He did yard work, minor repairs on the landlord’s household electronics, and even ran his errands. But the relationship soon became so abusive that Kyle could no longer take it … and so out he went. But the move was costly for him. It was only the 10^th of the month, and Kyle had already paid the entirety of that month’s rent. It took his entire paycheck to secure the residential motel, and at his wages, it will take a long time to recover from paying rent twice within ten days.

“If you can just help me with some food, I promise I will pay you back.” His mouth hung slack after he had finished speaking, his eyes red from having had only four hours of sleep between getting off work and his move. I guess I hesitated in my response, for he quickly followed with, “I won’t ever ask you for anything again. I can help you with whatever you need help with. I can volunteer at Sacred Heart. I promise.” And I felt sick.

the value of our possessions

Into the used bookstore Sadie carried a meaty stack of texts, of which the goodly bookkeeper kept seven. This was propitious, she told me, “For it is from Adam’s seventh rib that God made Eve.” I wasn’t sure if she was joking, and I wasn’t sure if this information was relevant. Regardless, she pocketed the happy little sum of $8.75 and set her heart toward what next she would do. “Let’s head downtown,” she suggested.

Some time ago I was startled to learn that Jesus encouraged his listeners to sell their possessions and give to those in need. He famously invited a rich young man to “Sell your possessions and give to the poor…. Then come, follow me” (Matthew 19:21). But more surprisingly, and perhaps willfully forgotten by us moderns, he asked the same of his followers, who were, well, already following him (Luke 12:33).

However, in a consumer culture, one that elevates acquisition to a moral imperative (our economy, our jobs, our very lives depend, we are told, on perpetual spending), the message to sell your possessions and give to the poor is seldom heard, and when it is, it seems laughable, destructive, or applicable to somebody else. But what if we’ve got it wrong? What if shopping is not the summum bonum? What if this radical, personal divestiture carries with it something wonderful that we have missed entirely?

The experience of the early church offers up a commentary on the possibilities created by this seemingly imprudent behavior: “All the believers were one in heart and mind. No one claimed that any of his possessions was his own, but they shared everything they had…. From time to time those who owned lands or houses sold them, brought the money from the sales and put it at the apostles’ feet, and it was distributed to anyone as he had need” (Acts 4:32; 34-35). And what was the result of this dispossession? “There were no needy persons among them” (Acts 4:33).

I admit it: I want to have my cake and eat it, too. I want the poor to be lifted from their destitution, and I want to enjoy the good life brought to me by my iPhone, my Doc Martens, my Cuisinart, and yes, my modest personal library. It pains me when I hear the chorus of impoverished voices telling me that they are poor because I am rich. Can’t we all just live a life of affluence? Why would anyone ask me to do without—to give up what belongs to me?

 

With $8.75 burning a hole in her handbag (and let’s be honest, a good bit more than $8.75 was in her handbag), Sadie considered how she would take the next step. She had decided that in order to follow Christ’s precept, swift, reckless distribution trumped thoughtful, strategic giving, for in her self-awareness she knew the latter carried with it the risk of inaction.

I followed Sadie downtown (incidentally, this all happened just yesterday). It was dark and rainy, but still it was Saturday night so people thronged the streets. We walked past restaurants and clubs filled with friends, families, and couples enjoying time with one another, and the juxtaposition between them and the people we approached was halting.

Through the mist that ascended from the waterlogged concrete, we watched as a man slowly, laboriously pushed a train of shopping carts piled high with all his worldly possessions. The man, similar to his carts, was wrapped in torn white sheets of plastic. He wore a hard hat.

A block later we came upon an elderly woman who smiled at us from an unlit doorway where she stood trying to get out of the rain. Her wire cart was stuffed mostly with crumpled newspaper, as were her coat pockets. When she opened her mouth, webs stretched between her lips and her hair fell like ashen straw over her shoulders.

The third obviously homeless individual we approached was a garrulous 64 year-old (the first two homeless people declined the money, a fact that should be a challenge to us all). I introduced myself, along with Sadie, and he replied, “W.D.’s the name. Like WD-40.” He was wiry, energetic, and unbelievably cheerful. Sadie dropped the cash into W.D.’s empty Big Gulp cup without much ceremony, and he thanked her sincerely. We talked with him about his situation for a moment, and then we bid him good night.

Walking away from W.D., Sadie reflected: “The fact that I no longer have the Twilight series at my finger tips, or books on the French Revolution and string theory, is surprisingly …” and here she paused, either to search for the right word or for dramatic effect: “unproblematic.” I didn’t argue with her. “But W.D. will get a couple meals out of it, and I made a friend. And if I see him again, I’ll stop and chat with him.” And who knows what might happen as a result of that relationship.

 

One obviously needn’t be Christian to attempt such a counter-cultural act of generosity—no more than a person need be Hindu to practice Gandhian non-violence. With this in mind, I invite readers to give this little act of compassion a try … and then share your experience by posting a comment. What did you sell? Was that process a challenge? To whom did you give? What did you feel when you gave? I look forward to hearing from you. Perhaps we can encourage one another in taking one step closer toward a community united to ensure that every child and adult is free from poverty.

new year's resignation

With a blue moon hanging pregnant in the sky, New Year's Eve brought with it an extraordinary sense of promise and expectation. But when the hour of midnight arrived, we got a law regulating tanning salons, a new selection of canned soup, and a particularly savage assault on an elderly homeless man.

I have been working with Spider for about nine months, and every effort to help him to a dignified, humane living situation seems to fall stillborn at our feet (see blog posts dated 5/26, 7/25, 8/31, & 9/26). An ever-expanding circle of social workers, physicians, non-profit organizations, federal employees, and private citizens of conscience have struggled to assist Spider in escaping what he refers to as "My Nightmare"; but the result is always the same.

On January 2nd, my wife and I found Spider after several days of searching. He had moved without warning from the location where he had been holed up for the past half year, and after scouring the streets and sidewalks where he customarily wheels himself in his dilapidated chair, we finally tracked him down beneath an overpass just outside the downtown core.

"What are you doing over here, Spider?" we asked. It was late at night and he was crumpled on the concrete with one of his badly soiled diapers just inches from his face. "We were worried about you." In truth there had been a flurry of email by concerned friends who had noticed that Spider was not in his usual haunt.

"It's too dangerous over there," Spider began, recognizing our voices. "It's not safe. I was mugged."

Mugged. I seldom consider that someone would be mugged in San Jose. But then he related the incident that had occurred on New Year's Eve over possession of his cigarettes.

"He started hitting me on the back of my head," and then Spider paused as the pain welled up in his throat. "He was beating me with a can of beer, and he wouldn't stop." 

Although Spider's skin is badly wrinkled and his voice is coarse, he never seemed so much like a child. "He kept beating me, but I couldn't do anything ... because of my legs." He motioned to his shrunken bones, and tears dropped from his dirty cheeks. The assailant then took what he was after amidst the fire works, honking horns, and happy couples streaming from the clubs and out into the freezing street to celebrate the New Year.

What continues to astonish me is that in the 21st century, in the Valley of Earthly Delights, it should prove impossible to provide the most basic human needs for a single, disabled, elderly man. While resources have been mobilized on his behalf, they have proved impotent in the face of a society that acquiesces to the occasional sacrifice of the weak.  

Spider drinks incessantly, smokes, jokes, makes friends easily, complains ad nauseam, has a terrible time trying to use a toilet, takes pride in his Native American heritage, makes idle threats, is stubborn, lonely, and nearly blind, loves sports, and most nights cries himself to sleep. He receives a paltry disability check each month, but the money he receives is not enough to pay for even low-income housing. What's more, he is simply incapable of caring for himself; even if there were a place he could afford, he would require 24-hour care. 

A few days after I had spoken with Spider regarding the assault, I found him back in front of the abandoned downtown office. I was dismayed to see him back so soon after his attack. "What's going on, Spider?" I wondered what could have happened that would have out-weighed the vulnerability to assault that he obviously risked in this spot.

He looked at me, anger in his eyes, and spoke quietly: "I was sitting in my wheelchair underneath the freeway, listening to my ball game, and a couple of kids came along and started harassing me." He then turned his face to the ground, his voice barely above a whisper. "One of them grabbed the back of my chair so I couldn't move, while the other one stood in front of me ... and pissed all on me."