Tag Archives: service

CalTrans Day 2: 24 Hours Remaining

I took the day off yesterday to visit with a fertility gynecologist. I have been struggling with premature ovarian failure since my arrest. I assumed it was just stress. I mean, being arrested is pretty stressful. Especially when you have NO CLUE they are coming for you.

The doc was very intelligent and mentioned, after unsympathetically mentioning that he sees no follicles anywhere, that only 1% of women with POF do not have premutated x chromosomes.

Say what???

He went on to explain that my daughter’s autism diagnosis is probably fragile x derived. For those, who, like me, are saying “fragile whaaa?”… It’s a chromosomal abnormality on the x chromosome. The good doctor also casually began to rattle off risk factors to me for having these premutated x chromosomes.

He concluded by saying he was 99% certain this was the case for me, but that I can have it confirmed with a blood test. Of course I ran over to my office to have someone draw the massive amount of blood this particular test requires.

Then I spun in circles about it and the fact that my daughter most likely has a 50/50 chance of birthing a child more severely effected than herself. Call me sentimental, but I was looking forward to grandbabies someday. The POF was hard enough to swallow… I mean, who wants to go through menopause and age like a 55 year old before you’re 40? It kinda sucks.

When I was a teenager, I used to say I wanted to be young and then old. I didn’t want to have those awful middle years of adulthood where you aren’t cool at all. Be careful what you ask for.

So, I normally don’t allow myself to wallow in self-pity. I find it to be a huge waste of time. But today I wallowed in self-pity on the side of the freeway.

For the record, CalTrans work ON the freeway is a WHOLE lot harder than CalTrans work off the freeway. I picked up trash. Big deal. But the repetitive motion of doing the same thing the entire day in the heat really messed with my neck, shoulders and right hand (those trash grabber things are tough to squeeze after the fourth hour of repeatedly squeezing it).

The entire of experience was a flashback to jail, only in the sunlight. Same etiquette and rules. Same mannerisms and speech.

Except the head boss guy was kinder to me than the others. He asked me what my crime was since I had not worked there before. I told him and his face softened.

“Midwifery is an honorable profession. I’m so sorry.”

He’s a black fellah in his mid 50s. His age puts him right at the time black babies were still being delivered into the hands of granny midwives. He went on to tell me that he was in the room with his wife when his son was born even though that wasn’t typical. “Jes me and my wife and the doctor. And he’s there tellin me everything he’s doin. I watched a miracle right there. Then two days later, my knees started knockin about how big a miracle that was.”

His words to me were kind after that.

The wind from the vehicles beside us blew clouds of dust into our faces. My eyes, ears, nostrils… black with dirt. My face was smeared with it and sweat from the heat of the sun. My lips were gritty. I don’t mind hard work. If I could have changed the motions of my body occasionally I woulda been alright. It was the repetition that killed me.

Here I am, going to die young of heart disease after aging prematurely and looking like a fat old lady when all my friends are young and fit. Or maybe I will survive the heart disease and live to be old enough to develop fragile x tremors and parkinson’s like symptoms from my mutated chromosomes. Why wouldn’t God have provided me with a partner if I was going to suffer so much? And who would want to marry this fat, saggy, infertile lady now? Why would my children have to go through so much stress now, only to prepare them to have to be left alone or have to take care of a mother who can no longer hold her hands still enough to paint and who yells expletives at them and forgets basic life skills?

As you can see, not a happy place to be there on the freeway. The freeway didn’t make it, my mind did. Sitting there in an emotional cage all my own.

In that moment, I noticed a little lizard in the dirt in front of me. Poor fellah was in shock. His entire home was being hoed and raked and dumped. All he was left with was dirt. He played dead, not knowing what else to do.

I picked him up in my dusty gloved hand. “Poor guy.” I said to him, feeling huge amounts of empathy for such a small little creature that nobody else noticed.

I placed him to the side of my by a tree for shelter.

And then it occurred to me. “If you then, who are evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your Father who is in heaven give good things to those who ask him!” These words, attributed to Jesus of Nazareth in the account of Matthew, rang in my ears.

God has infinitely more compassion on me than I have on others. I can trust and believe that. But even as I did, my heart cried out, “I don’t see it at all right now, God!”

I remembered how, on New Year’s Day, a guest speaker at our church spoke about “the God who gives and takes away” and that it is ok to ask Him why He does. And, I did. Finally after this whole crazy journey, I asked Him on New Year’s Day 2012… Why, God?

And I think I am going to start getting answers. At least, I see now why I went through the pain of losing my third pregnancy. And if I think back, that was the moment that everything began for me. The loss of my third pregnancy was the beginning of a long, seven year path through pain.

As I returned to picking up trash, the next item I grabbed was a photograph of a woman. I looked at it in the trash bag for a moment and wondered who she was and then moved on to pick up more trash to toss in over her.

A strange question entered my mind as I did so. “Why did you have compassion on the lizard and not the woman?”

My response was “The woman was only an image. The lizard was alive.”

The point became clear. This body I’m living in is simply an image of me here on earth. The soul is what is alive. God cares far more about my character and soul development than He does about my temporary comfort in a body that will perish with the using.

It’s a hard lesson. Learned in a very hard place. Somehow it’s easy to think I will live forever, stay young forever, wake up tomorrow… but the reality is so very different.


CalTrans Day 1: 32 Hours Remaining

The paperwork I was given for my forty hours of CalTrans says “misdemeanor” on it. If only! But at least this time I am spared the “riding an animal” embarrassment.

I was able to begin this part of my sentence due to the graciousness of a neighbor of a friend of mine. Linda speaks very broken English. She is the mother of three small children and stays home with them while her husband works. When I met her I was enveloped in the joy and warmth and hospitality I remember so well from when I lived in Mexico City. Even though I had a hard time understanding her (my Spanish is as good as her English), her smile lit up the room. She told me that her entire household is crazy. The only sane ones are her dog, her bird and her guinea pig. I felt right at home.

When my friend told her my story she opened her arms and home and offered to care for my children free of charge while I finished my CalTrans work. As I thanked her, her children ran screaming between us with an automatic nerf gun and a nerf rocket launcher, chasing each other with fiery competition. Her dog growled (my friend told me the dog has an aversion to nerf guns). She laughed nervously. I told her there is a reason hispanics will always have their liberty in California.

I arrived late because the misdemeanor paper more than one error on it. It also said to arrive at seven am. When I showed up, proud that I was so early, the lot was vacant except for one lone worker who looked at me funny.

“I’m supposed to report here for court ordered CalTrans work…”

“Uhhh. They already left at six. Ju gunna need to talk to the boss. Maybe he’ll let you stay or something.”

The boss had pity on me. I thanked him and apologized for being an hour late.

“Well, according to your paper, you’re right on time… just make sure to arrive before six on your remaining days.”

I was shown to the employee facilities and offices across the street and the mops, brooms and cleaners. I’ve done this before. Only the floors and walls are a heck of a lot cleaner than Skid Row. Eric, the guy I first met, reminded me of the rules which included not having a cell phone on the premises.

“A while back one of the workers called someone in his gang and they had a shooting here.”

He didn’t need to explain further. We were in East L.A. after all.

“You might just work here in the facilities… they normally keep one female behind to clean. If there’s more than one female the rest of them gotta go pick trash, but it’s easy. You don’ gotta do nothing wichyor hands. They give you tools to pick stuff up. Is not hard. You’ll do these five days in jor sleep.”

And this was the part of the sentence the judge said would be really hard for me.

Cleaning the staff offices was easy, simple work.

The boss even came out and chatted with me for a bit about how life in the fifties was better than now. I agreed, even though I wasn’t alive in the fifties.

The men let me sign out first since I was a “female.” I was, actually, the only woman I saw all day. I wonder if a we women would treat a man with the same kind of preference if he ventured into a mostly female profession. Like, if an obstetrician worked with all midwives. Oh, wait a minute… question answered. I hung my head in shame for treating the obstetrician I worked with in a patronizing manner. Need to make amends there.


Day 35 cont. The Part a Court Had Nothing To Do With

I was up at five am. At the shelter by six. Done with community service at two in the afternoon. At my car by a little before three.

By three thirty I was walking 6th street, which is like the street I did my community service work on if it had a housing problem. Which it already has, of course. I get far less stares and strange greetings now… it’s as if Skid Row has rubbed off on me.

As I neared San Pedro, I noticed a line of mothers and small children so long I couldn’t see the end of it. The church had said they were expecting close to twelve hundred. They weren’t exaggerating.

A pleasant man with a name tag showed me where to go. The church I was volunteering with was doing kitchen duty. I found some familiar faces and set to work preparing some food. I was impressed to see this church had an excess of volunteers. A couple people didn’t know where to help out so they began mingling with the families and chit chatting. I was happy to discover that the families had already been given tickets ahead of time for entrance, which reduced the likelihood of addicts coming and taking donations to sell.

I spent the next six hours dishing out chilli on hotdogs, sprinkling cheese and giving fruit away.

Almost every family was latino. We served over a thousand people and I only saw about twenty black families. This struck me as unusual since almost everyone outside on the streets was black and most of the people I served at the drop in center were also black. I asked a few questions and quickly found out that most of the families had taken buses in from east Los Angeles or Pico-Union.

They were large families who receive assistance because their incomes are low and they are at risk for homelessness.

My children went to school with these children when we lived in south Echo Park. 98% of them live below the poverty line, most with grandparents, aunts and uncles under the same roof.

Let me just state for the record that I LOVE these latino children. They are sweet spirited, shy and love to show off when you get them going. Some of the church members had done some face painting and they would point to their batman, spiderman or butterfly on their cheek for us to admire while we dished out their food. Some of them would proudly point to their new shoes and do that little bounce children do in new duds. It’s amazing how far a smile will go with a small child. I began to play a game as I scooped food, seeing how many smiles I could get. Some kids were harder to crack open than others.

Some pulled themselves up on their tip-toes to see the food, their eyes wide with hunger. Others were very opinionated about what goes on a hot dog… a few to the point of obvious disgust at anything but ketchup.

One group of three brothers all told us they wanted chilli on their hotdogs. We began the process of preparing their food when their mother stopped us and told us, no. They would have theirs plain with no chilli. It was then that I had flashbacks of the sharing a room with my children after they had chilli. I laughed to myself as the women around me looked confused.

Most of the children came with mothers… three or four or five children to every woman. Some had fathers with them as well. All of them looked tired, no doubt from waiting in line for so long. My heart melted for the babies who were tied on their mother’s back with a sheet. Who needs an Ergo.

When the last hot dog was given away and every family left with warm bellies and warm hearts, we began the clean up and tear down. I was incredibly impressed with the thoroughness of the job done by the volunteers. Unlike the less than desirable cleaning job the volunteers at the shelter I’d done my community service work at would do, the place we left was spotless.

Skid Row may be the end of the line for some people, but after tonight I’m starting to see that it is also the heart of the city from which so much love occurs. And like any heart, the one that belongs to this city has symptoms of its’ illness and health. We need to quit doing crack. We need to quit hiding the things that we’re ashamed of. We need to talk about our issues more. We need to embrace the foreigner, the fatherless and the widow in our land. And we need a LOT of compassionate encouragement instead of cold judgement.

A little understanding goes a long way. On Skid Row like everywhere else.

I feel honored to have spent time here and really put my finger on the pulse of our city. Don’t worry, I didn’t count the beats.


Day 35: 40 Hours Remaining

I walked the sidewalk in the predawn hours with a box filled high with gifts. I was a little nervous since I had just found out that felons can’t carry pepper spray so I had to leave the one I was given at home. Fortunately, most of the people I passed by now know me by name and also seem to know that if they mess with me, I know them by name too.

It was freezing cold and I don’t own a jacket.

Both of these reasons impelled me to walk faster.

It was going to be my last day doing community service work on Skid Row. Too bad I still don’t have a probation officer to impress with how quickly I did it. Only forty more hours and those are assigned with CalTrans.

I was able to donate a clock to replace the teenie one they have hung up in the bed area. If I had a dollar for every time a client stared it at, squinting, and asked, “Hey, Ms. Lady… what time is it?” I’d be a rich felon.

I was also able to donate a bag of black pens. I’m sure they’ll last a day or two. And a couple of big bottles of hand sanitizer which is always running low.

My children baked cookies for the staff the night before. They are really good at it. Who knew?

But my favorite thing to give away was all the little gifts I had collected over the past weeks for the individual staff members. I had been anxiously awaiting today, my last day, to spend the whole day just loving the people who give and give and give in a part of the city that nobody ever sees. I’ve been aching to give back to them, to let them know how amazing they truly are, even when they rarely hear it.

I gave Wendy a little necklace with a silver starfish and the story of the starfish. If you don’t know the story, it’s here.

I was super blessed to pass along someone’s study Bible for Jim so he can prepare for his sermon in April.

I brought Linda a book of encouragements to read in the morning before she greets the endless line of people bringing her bags to be checked in at the front counter.

Pilar got an angel pendant to remind her of the thankfulness I’ve had for her protection and kindness during the night shifts I did.

Everyone got a little something that I hope and pray will remind them, if only for a moment, of the difference they make in the world. I want them to know there is gratitude for what they do that is deep and abiding.

Most of all, I brought something inspiring for Eric. It really wasn’t much, but I’ve been thinking about it for a while. I gave him one of those window candles homes sometimes have back east or during Christmastime here. I was once told that the tradition began during the civil war when families would keep a candle lit at night if they had a son or father or husband away in battle. It represented the warmth of the home they were going to someday come home to, the hope of their return.

I thanked Eric for the light he holds in the darkness for soldiers who have lost their way. His outpost is far off in the trenches, alone in the dark. But the light of hope he holds is very real for those who are ready to end their travels.

The flowers I received from staff at the shelter... The most beautiful I have ever been given.

A few of the staff members pitched in together and bought me a dozen yellow roses which I promptly placed in the only vase we had… a water bottle with the top cut off. It brought me to tears and is the most beautiful bouquet I have ever received.

I stayed an extra half an hour until the shift’s quitting time. Jimmy, a staff member from the next shift gave Wendy and I a ride to our cars. As we drove, he pointed out a white hipster with a camera, taking video of the humanity occupying San Julian. He panned down the street, shooting the sidewalk tents and inhabitants.

“Why they gots ta do that?” Jimmy asked.

“Do what?”

“Why they gots to always come down here and take pitchers an go home an show their friends and laugh at us?”

Even though he is staff, this is Jimmy’s home. He can’t even begin to understand why people on the outside would be documenting Skid Row. There is so much work to be done here. Not to “clean up” Skid Row or its’ people. What needs to be done is to lift the sights of its’ residents. I will not believe progress has been made here until Jimmy is laughing at the guy with the camera and calling him a tourist.

When I gave my last hug and got to my car, I thought I knew a thing or two about Skid Row. But in one hour I was headed back to visit a different building, a block north of where I had done my community service. Some of the members of a church I’ve visited recently in Los Angeles were handing out new shoes, clothing, food and Thanksgiving groceries to families. I was about to find a drastically different dynamic only a stone’s throw away.


A Moment of Silence

There is so much grief I’ve carried this last year. All within my heart are pockets stuffed with tears. If you saw the Nessie short at the beginning of Captain America, that’s me.

But when I look back through the last few years for a reason for all of this, I can only see a long trail of sacrifices I made for mothers and babies. When I examine the root for why I went into midwifery to begin with, I only find the love I felt when my first baby was placed in my arms for the first time. That mother love was so profound it spilled out into everything I touched from that moment on. It rang out and splashed out on everyone I met. The passion to share that joy was engulfing and consuming. I find no other motive.

I’m sad the judge said I could not have done what I did for altruistic reasons. I’m sad for him that he doesn’t know women like the ones I’ve been honored to work beside. Fellow birth servants who are bing lit by the same fire to serve families until we breathe our last breath.

Our hearts sound like this song. We dance to the beat of a different drum than the one most of society hears. Our rhythm is a  timeless feminine song that is the love of mothering as old as women. It is a song that has been missing in our country and is desperately needed RIGHT NOW.

————————————-

The song, linked above, is called Suo Gan and is a Welsh lullabye from mother to child. The lyrics, translated, are:

Sleep my baby, at my breast,
’Tis a mother’s arms round you.
Make yourself a snug, warm nest.
Feel my love forever new.
Harm will not meet you in sleep,
Hurt will always pass you by.
Child beloved, always you’ll keep,
In sleep gentle, mother’s breast nigh.
Sleep in peace tonight, sleep,
O sleep gently, what a sight.
A smile I see in slumber deep,
What visions make your face bright?
Are the angels above smiling,
At you in your peaceful rest?
Are you beaming back while in
Peaceful slumber on mother’s breast?
Do not fear the sound, it’s a breeze
Brushing leaves against the door.
Do not dread the murmuring seas,
Lonely waves washing the shore.
Sleep child mine, there’s nothing here,
While in slumber at my breast,
Angels smiling, have no fear,
Holy angels guard your rest.

Day 33: 54.5 Hours Remaining

I only have two more days at the shelter and I’m beginning to get sad about it. Fourteen and a half hours left to go. Tuesday will be my last day. The remaining forty hours were ordered to be done with Caltrans.

A man in a jersey walked onto the property today and started saying “six dollars for 10.” It took me a minute to realize that he had EBT cards in his hands. Every store on skid row takes EBT. Even the liquor stores and fast food restaurants. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to realize an addict can sell his or her EBT cards for less than their value and use the cash to buy dope. They get free food in the shelters anyway, why not?

I’m not criticizing anything about the way that works, just making an observation. Anyone who loves an addict knows there’s no way to “solve” the madness of addiction until the addict chooses to get off the ride. Even the State of California is an enabler.

“I’m sorry sir. When you show up dirty you gots ta leave. That’s how it is at the VOA. You need to go back to the VA and get yourself enrolled in a substance abuse program. You can’t come back here until some time’s gone by and you are really ready to accept help.” Eric hung up the phone and pressed his fingers to his temple, fatigued.

“Ma’am, I done told you. We don’t sign papers if you don’t got a case worker here.” Mark was getting frustrated. It was then tenth time he told the same woman the exact same thing. I put my hand on his back, trying to add some strength as I saw his cheek twinge with hidden anger. “No. No, ma’am. Thas not what I said. I said you have to go to The Midnight Mission. Not just any mission.” Twinge. Twinge. Twinge.

A staff member stood at the gate and stared across the street at the mounted police who had stopped to talk with someone who was sitting beneath a blanket that was hung up between two shopping carts filled with belongings. I wasn’t sure why they chose to stop there, randomly. The entire street is lined with people just like the homeless man they were talking to. Tents and blankets and shopping carts as far as the eye could see.

“They can sniff dope,” the staff worker mumbled.

“Who can?”

“The horses. They have em trained.”

A client walked by and proclaimed to nobody in particular, “I need to get right with God. This shit is off the hook.”

Later in the day, somebody asked Wendy what she was doing for Thanksgiving.

“Working. We don’t get holidays off.”

“You don’t?” I asked.

“No. The homeless don’t take breaks on us, y’know. The staff in the office, they get holidays off. But us here on the outside, we don’t. We get anotha day off later with pay.”

The clients’ madness is constant. It never stops. I don’t know about horses being able to smell dope, but I do know that these staff members have atypical skills. Anyone who works in a service profession knows how hard it is to care when you are never thanked. Not only are these caregivers never thanked by the homeless addicts and mentally ill people they serve, they are also never noticed. Their work is never acknowledged and goes completely unrecorded in history. There are very few people who would serve knowing they would never be rewarded in this lifetime. Thanksgiving is coming up. I’m going to thank them.


Day 32: 62 Hours Left

I watched him hold onto the handles of the cart with a grip so tight I felt my skin tingle. The man was literally holding his entire weight up by his hands. He was dragging his red tennis shoe covered feet with great difficulty, one at a time, behind him. I have never, in all my 37 years, seen someone have more difficulty walking. It was obvious he would benefit from a wheel chair.

A young woman steadied the cart as he walked and made sure his belongings didn’t fall off as he labored along. Although she appeared to be about fifteen years younger than him, her face was bright and cheerful and it was obvious she was a pleasant companion and loved him dearly. I see that a lot down here… bright and loud, shiney and witty… the women are like ornaments on the necks of the men they care for. Some of them aren’t women, technically. But the men don’t seem to mind. There is definitely a lot more testosterone than estrogen on these streets. And even more loneliness.

The man in the red tennis shoes was another reminder of the uniqueness of each individual here. Every person has a story, a lifetime lived with all their various issues dancing across the various years. Not one is alike, even if many share common themes. It’s part of what draws me into loving people. I love stories. I love them even more when I am an uninvolved viewer. I don’t like to live the drama myself.

Yet somehow, despite that, my life has become more dramatic than I ever wanted it to be.

I was drinking a water in the bed area when I overheard Paul asking one of the case managers about a newly opened office position.

“What would that person have to do?” He asked.

“Well, among other things, they would need to be good with people and developing relationships with clients.”

Paul nodded and then excitedly pointed at me.

I immediately dropped my head, embarassed to be pointed out.

The case manager laughed a little uncomfortably and then said, “Shoot, no. We don’t hire just anyone!” Within a minute I could tell he realized how painful his statement had sounded and he began to cover his tracks: “I mean, not that you’re just anyone or something. I mean they need experience and a degree and stuff.”

I laughed, but on the inside I broke. I slipped away and found an uninhabited corner to sweep up leaves and cry.

I worked hard to get through eight years of post-highschool education and have nothing to show for it. I have no degree because none is offered to licensed midwives. I have no experience in anything but loving others. I have loved with a wide open heart and served until my body ached. I’ve deprived myself of sleep for nights on end and gone without food because someone else’s need was greater. And in the end, one judge’s word brought it all to nothing. My wide open heart had a gallon of arsenic poured into it. I drank the tyranny of the cubicle dry.

And now I’m just anyone. Now I’m nameless and faceless and lost in the crowd. I could be the woman on skid row who is begging for a dollar. I could be the addict. I could be the drunk. I could now be the single mother who wraps herself up in relationship after relationship looking for satisfaction. I could be the waitress who tried to become an actress all her life but never landed anything but a handful of extra roles. I could be the hooker.

I walked a mile to 2nd and Los Angeles Streets during lunch to get away and try to remember what life was like before skid row. I bought a coffee at the cafe my attorney and I sat at in Little Tokyo and tried hard to remember the hope I once had that the system would show itself true on my behalf.

I lost myself in the crowded streets and remembered that just two months ago it was, actually, me who signed lab orders and travel approvals and birth certification letters on letterhead that had my name and medical license on it. It was me who was trusted to hold women in their most vulnerable state and honored to be the first to ever touch a human being on earth. It was me who was giving advice and calming fears and healing hurts.

As I walked back through the masses of hurting humanity who are more like me now than any other group, I was relieved to see the man with red shoes wheeling himself down the sidewalk in a brand new wheelchair given to him by the staff I love so much. There he was, my medalion of hope that love can find one solitary lonely anybody.

 


Day 31: 70 Hours Remaining

Something is in the air. My accupuncturist friend says it’s “crazy season.” Last night my children would not stop jumping like jack in the boxes no matter how much I put my thumb on their heads.

This morning a woman walked onto the courtyard like a queen from her carriage. She began shouting at anyone and nothing.

“I want a fucking bed!” came roaring at one staff member.

“I want my drugs!” was hurled at another.

Heads were gunna roll.

Most everyone on skid row is a ticking bomb. It’s just a matter of time before the last straw breaks. It’s hard to tell what came first, the mental illness or the addiction. Sometimes I feel that if I stay here long enough I’d join right into the song, crooning like an alleycat at midnight when the other ferals start their party.

Even when I’m hiding in the laundry room I know when something is going down. I can hear the shouting over the whir of the washing mashines and the mechanical clanking of the dryers. The woman’s timer had hit zero.

It always starts with one staff member yelling, trying to talk sense into someone with no reference for why gravity doesn’t point upward. And then like leopards creeping in from the corners of the courtyard, more staff members approach tactically, as they slip on gloves. The gloves are for protection in case they have to physically move the person who cracked. Cracked people have sharp edges. Some of those edges are uncapped needles and some are bleeding cuts and oozing sores.

Fortunately, this woman left without much prompting, shouting expletives over her shoulders as she did so.

A couple hours later a woman carried a complaint of mistreatment to Greg, the supervisor. She was cracking slowly, not all at once like the lady before her. Eventually her rage reached a climactic crescendo and she accused Greg of hitting her. I stood, shocked, wondering how Greg would handle this wrinkle in reality.

He reached accross the counter for his phone.

“Imma call the police right now and report it for you.” And he held the phone up for her to see as he dialed 9-1-1.

“Thas right. I want to press charges.” She seemed delighted that he had saved her a walk to the pay phone.

“Yes, ma’am, I’d like to report myself for allegedly hitting a woman here at XXX San Julian Street. She’s standing right here and wants to press charges.” He pulled the phone away from his ear for a moment to double check with the client, “You said you want to press charges, right?”

“Yes’m.” She had her arms crossed now and was starting to look a little uncomfortable.

“Yes, ok, yes. We will wait right here for you. You say you’ll have a patrol car here in about ten minutes?” And then to the client, “they can have a couple officers here in about 10 minutes so you can give then yo information and ask them to arrest me.”

“They won’t arrest you…” she said, “I don’t wanna cause you no trouble…”

“Well, you want to press charges, right?”

“Oh… are they really coming here? You ain’t really talking to them are you?”

“Yes. Sho am. Here.” And with that, Greg put his phone to the client’s ear.

“Hello? Who is this? Oh. No. No ma’am. I don’t wanna press no charges. I don’t wanna cause no trouble. No need to send the officers here to see me. But I just want you to know, the man DID hit me.”

It was a moment of amazing clarity for me. Love in the face of fear. Boldness in the face of intimidation. Truth and light in the face of lies and insanity. He called her on her claims and diffused the bomb.

These people are pros. Yet, despite this fact, they are rarely treated like the experts they are. All of them but one or two are black. I am by far the only white person in the client area and I am the lowest thing on the totem pole that’s out there. Heck, I’m not even ON the totem pole! I do the work nobody else wants to do. I’m there to learn a lesson and it’s not supposed to be fun.

But for some strange reason, whenever someone comes onto the grounds from another non-profit– a social worker, a medical provider, a community educator– they look at me when addressing staff and asking for direction. They assume that I’m in charge because I’m white.

Racism is alive and well, even here, even now.


Day 30: 77.5 Hours Remaining

I had a staff member look me in the eye today and tell me, “You really are something special. You are a good woman.” This made me astoundingly uncomfortable.

I’ve come to believe that the “good-er” a person is, the more in touch with their fail-ability they are. The most pure and beautiful acts come from individuals who are wrung dry of their own ego, pride and sense of self-entitlement. I guess it shouldn’t surprise me that people would see the evidence of God in me after this profoundly humbling and heartbreaking year. I could give you a laundry list of all of the evil, wicked, and downright animal things I’m capable of and have conspired to do on occassion. Spend five minutes with my ex-roommate and he will give you a speech about the unworthiness of me. But that isn’t the point of this blog, happily.

My point instead is to maybe eek out a bit of the astounding gratitude I feel for the capacity to love. It is exactly BECAUSE I’ve been so crushed that there is so much room for service. There was this capacity before trial, but I’m finding it expanding outward even more now that I’m a felon. And, yes, I use that word a lot. I’m wearing it like a badge of honor. Because I’ve come to see the humiliation of it as a catalyst to loving others.

Sometimes I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and it terrifies me. I see no way out of the pain of this crushing time. If I linger in that view I run to old trappings that endeavor to shackle my feet.

But when I lift my gaze and see the eternal perspective that is ultimately molding me I am ok to sit in the fire some more. There is an old Indian saying that if I did not have tears, my soul would not give off rainbows.

I was interested to meditate on the story of the two apostles, Peter and John, who were arrested for healing a man. The judicial folks of their day brought them in to try them and the first thing they asked was, “by whose authority did you do this?” Which… I dunno… kinda sounds like, “Where’s your license?”

In the end they told them to cut it out and let them go.

What is most interesting to me is that they ran straight away to their buddies and they prayed together because they were preplexed, seeing as this was the first real issue this very first church really had. I was floored by their prayer. They prayed three things. First they acknowledged that God is sovereign and supreme, that He is able to do whatever He pleases and that THIS WAS HIS PLAN and not an accident. Second, they realized that they were followers of a Servant who suffered to love others and as such, they didn’t expect to go through anything less. And thirdly, they asked for MORE BOLDNESS to speak the truth.

So, yeah. They were crushed, emptied and scared. And this created a vacuum to continue to love and speak the truth from a place of boldness.

I’m cool if the goodness and love folks see in me is acknowledged as God inspired. I get profoundly uncomfortable when it’s not.

As we walked this morning in the pre-dawn hours, Wendy smiled and acknowledged every Skid Row tennant she knew.

“Hello! Good mornin!” And then under her breath to me, “Thas one of the most notorious dealers. But ain’t none o’ my bizness. Ain’t none o’ mine. She gots her life and I gots mine. But she can be saved same as me. She can. I know it cus I was saved and if I can be saved, anybody can.”

She beams with such light the street lights up when she walks in the dark. Everyone knows her and they seem stupified by her smile pressing up against such despair. But she lives for nothing but service and love. And that service and love comes from God filling up the vacuum created as she empties herself of her own ego.


Day 28: 89.5 Hours Remaining

As I opened the dryer door, I noticed a pile of what appeared to be large cocoa puffs. I swept it out with a broom and threw it in the trash. As I lifted the clothes out with my gloved hands I realized there was more of this dried and crumbling stuff falling from the newly cleaned clothes of a client who had signed on for wash today. As I folded each item I eventually noticed that the pants were filled with it. It was then that I realized that I was not looking at cocoa puffs.

The owner is a man in a wheelchair in his late sixties. He is pleasant as jam and had warned me when he dropped his bag off to be careful because they were really dirty.

I rewashed his clothing and refolded them and placed them neatly in a clean bag. When he returned for them later in the morning I handed them to him, looked him in the eyes and smiled with gratitude.

That was about an hour before I filled out a job application to keep my community service position permanently. I may not stay here, I do have one other job in the wings, but I feel like I need something secure beneath me. You know your life is unusual when skid row is your secure something or other.

I picked up cigarette butts and took a break to check the bathrooms in the couryard. I deep cleaned one because someone had chosen to smear oreas all over the walls and floor. Fortunately for me, this time it was indeed oreos.

It seems as though we have been visited by the newspaper fairy. The last couple days I’ve worked, each bathroom is repeatedly wallpapered in areas by wet newspaper. I assume this is to give the perpetrator something colorful to look at. Our bathrooms are pretty boring, afterall.

At 12:30 in the afternoon it is my duty to report to the bed area for the cleaning of the men’s and women’s main bathrooms and showers. And this is where I felt the inspiration for my writing, believe it or not.

It must be told that the men’s bathroom is something else. When I arrive on the scene my feet splash in the mud as I walk across the tile. Everywhere across the floor is a mixture of mud, shampoo, hair shavings, toothpaste, wet wads of toilet paper and as of late: more soggy newspaper.

Entire sets of clothing are thrown hap-hazardly in corners here and there. Sometimes blatantly on the counter for all to see. What at first appears to be frivolity (“How could they just THROW away this sweater when they have no money?”), eventually crystalizes when the difficulty of carrying your life on your own back day in and day out is taken into consideration. Soggy wet socks are found in the showers every time I visit. Please take note: I now believe that THIS is where those extra socks go when they disappear from your dryer. There appears to be some sort of vortex connecting the middle class dryer and the homeless shelter shower room.

I pick up everything off the floor and counters before beginning my cleaning task. Sometimes I think I high powered spray hose would be more effective than what I do, but regardless, I soldier on.

Try as I might, my cleaning attempts become more of a “pushing mud around” event than anything else. Even for a single mom who is used to attempting thoroughness in the face of chaotic odds.

On the way back to the car this afternoon, Eric was very quiet. “Are you ok?” I asked.

“Yeah. Well… it’s been a hard day.”

What I just described was a normal day. A hard one is even more in your face. My jaw drops to the filthy, trash-strewn pavement and I have nothing but respect left in it’s place.