View From the Sidewalk

To Return the Favor

2011-05-08T11:54:00.003-04:00

Seems strange to be posting again. I had said everything I'd wanted to say, gotten my little 15 minutes of fame and found a home. Mission accomplished. Time to move on.

But something kept telling me not to delete the blog, and now I see why. Recently I've heard some very distressing news. It seems GIHN is in trouble. They're suffering a lack of funds, and if they don't find some more soon, they could be forced to shut down. Dozens of newly-homeless families would be subjected to the fate we were six short years ago.

Well, they helped us when we needed it, so now I get to return the favor. Unfortunately, I cannot aid them financially (although I'd gladly do so), but the blog's still up. It might even still have a few people who check in on an irregular basis. So I can help get the word out. Perhaps many people can get together and help a truly deserving organization. Or maybe, just maybe, there's a big wheel whose bank account size is exceeded only by the size of their compassion and who can write GIHN a check for the full $60,000 they need to keep operating.

It's a shame that there is even a need for GIHN's services at all in a country such as ours, but as long as there are homeless families, thank God that there is a GIHN around to help them.

One Year Later...Almost

2008-01-09T14:25:00.000-05:00

I had told myself that this chapter of my life is over and I should focus on the future. However, every so often I get an inquiry on the street or an e-mail describing another homelessness horror story and I feel a strong pull back here to the blog.

Coming back now after nearly a year away is, well, like revisiting the house where you grew up, or climbing into a musty old attic where so much of your being is stored. So much that's familiar, yet so much that feels new simply because you haven't seen it in awhile.

But soft; let me take a quick moment to update everyone on our (mis)adventures:

After my last post in 2007, I plunged headlong into the dual business of keeping a roof over our heads (no small feat) and discharging my duties at work without landing in jail (an even larger feat). Mike graduated from high school in June (we're still trying to figure out how), but isn't in college yet becuase frankly we didn't expect him to so we weren't scouting out any campuses and instead were focused on yet another year of high school. He's chomping at the bit to enter school, so we're shooting for this coming fall. Ness made her grade with flying colors and is now in 5th grade. She's developing some talent in music (she can play keyboard, violin and guitar, her favorite) but she's at the point where we have to watch her grades lest they slip. Mama went for job training this past November and passed as far as we know -- she's still waiting for her final test scores. The Trusty Steed is still ferrying us back and forth, although she's beginning to show her age and cantankerousness. We've been adopted by two of the neighborhood cats, a mother and her kitten. We can't actually take them in due to lease restrictions, but we keep them relatively well-fed and ear-scratched. Maybe I should take some time to find them a good, dry home.

I seem to have fared worst of all of us. Although the nightmares of being homeless finally stopped, the Beast hasn't been idle. In fact, after reading a book on the subject, I'm convinced that I have full-blown clinical depression, but that's a downer for another time ("Yes, I'll have the Prozac with a Zoloft chaser, please." Brrr!) Somewhere in a dark corner of my mind, he's cackling to himself and rubbing his claws together with glee... Money is still tight and nowhere near the level I enjoyed in 2000-2002, and the job? Well, the less said the better (some future employer might be reading this, so I have to keep it wound tight.)

Still, it's not all bad. I finally got off my lazy duff and returned to school last fall. Broke straight As my first semester back and I'm now in the midst of my second (out of 4). My major? Why graphic design, of course. It seems to be the only thing I'm good at that also 1) makes me happy and 2) offers the prospect of letting me pull down some good money for a change.

I occasionally keep up with news on homelessness but not to the degree I did when I was in it. For one thing, the old feelings resurface and they feel just as unpleasant now as they did then. But mostly I'm too busy to devote much time to it. As I mentioned above, though, I still occasionally get posts from homeless people in the midst of their own personal hell. Sadly, all I can do is offer words of encouragement but maybe sometimes that's enough, neh?

The Slavery of Freedom

2007-02-16T14:43:00.000-05:00

Not a lot has happened of any consequence since the last time I posted, except for a followup to the original News & Record story. The article states that I've been considering stopping the blog. I figured I'd said all that needs to be said and I didn't want to wear out my welcome by becoming yet another "I-did-this-and-then-I-did-that-but-it's-all-boring-and-the-exciting-bits-are-made-up-anyway" blog. C'mon, you've got better things to do with your Web time.

However, I occasionally have a thing or two to say, so maybe I'll continue just a bit longer.

Today's offering is twofold, but both borne of the same incident. We were in the Greensboro Housing Authority offices for recertification today. For the uninitiated, each year we have to report our income and family composition -- prove that we're still poor enough to live in the projects*, if you will -- which determines if our rent will stay the same, increase or we'll be booted out altogether.

The first realization came as I was filling out the reporting forms and looking over the voluminous rules and regulations the office receptionist handed me. I realized that although my family is living in the most free nation on earth (arguably), we are not free.

Gasp! Horrors! Must be one'a those pinko reds!

Wait, put down the pitchforks and I'll explain. It occurred to me that if I owned my own home, I would not have to do this every year. My private affairs would be just those: my private affairs. How much money I made and how I made it would be my business. Who I had over and why they were there would be my business. What Mama does in her spare time during the day when I'm at work and the kids were in school would be her business. Where the kids went to school and how well they were doing would be their business. Our lives would be -- our lives.

Instead, we have to report on our financial and some social activities to the Overlords, in order to keep a roof over our heads and heat around our bodies. And if we don't report, the roof and heat immediately go away. In addition, we have to submit to inspections pretty much whenever management feels like it; report if I make more money, temporarily or not; report who in the house is working and why or why not; how well the kids are doing in school and why or why not; and always, always dread the next inspection or recertification where we may have forgotten to dot some arcane i or cross some obsolete t that'll land us right back on the street.

I pass by houses every day and I envy those within. Sure, they have their own set of problems, but they're not sweating losing their home just because they can finally tell some bigwig "none of your business" when s/he wants to go poking into their private affairs.

Yes, I can almost hear the rebuttals: "But you're better off than when you were homeless." "But at least you have a roof over your head." "At least you're still alive." "Well, you got to go through some of that if people are helping you." But show of hands, now: how many of you like having to strip naked -- socially speaking -- for whoever orders you to do it "or else"?

The other thing came from a poster I saw on the wall at the GHA offices. It was a PSA** for health care services. The headline was "Poverty Doesn't Make You Sick, But It Can Keep You From Getting Well." How sadly true, but I submit to you that poverty can indeed make you sick.

Poverty can make you mentally sick by making you worry all the time. About money. About the rest of the family's health. About who's going to screw you today, or tomorrow. About the bills piling up. About everything in the universe that you could knock out of the way if you just had your hands on some money. And some people wonder why others play the lottery. All that worry leads to stress, and all that stress leads to...

Poverty can make you physically ill as well. Most of it comes from the mental stress that builds up over worrying about money so much. It's been scientifically proven that stress makes you fat and does horrible things to your immune system. In addition, poor people can't buy the right kinds of food -- fresh fruits, vegetables, foods with low fat and high nutritional content, even dietetic foods -- because they're more expensive. So we end up eating the wrong things. Pretty soon, you're flat on your back with a bug, a stroke or a heart attack. Or you're listening to your doctor (if you can afford to see one) utter those dread words "it's Type 2 Diabetes. There's no cure."

So to sum, I say that poverty can make you very sick indeed. It can also make you a slave. And neither prospect is very pleasant.

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* The irony being, of course, that if we were making enough money to leave the projects, we would've long since left.
** Public Service Announcement, but you knew that already, didn't you?

Then Beggars Would Ride

2007-01-11T18:57:00.000-05:00

I know, I know...it's been awhile since my last post (hmm...seems more and more of my posts are starting out with that sentence...) but the reason behind it is quite simple: I've been working more. My schedule hasn't let up since November or so, and now I'm more or less full time at the store.

Working full time in retail.

What the heck was I thinking?

Well, it's not like there are any graphic design jobs coming my way anymore (and I'm about ready to chuck the whole graphics thing anyway, for more than one reason), so I might as well just shut up, give up and make the best of it.

So what events have transpired since the tsunami...er, I mean, the holidays hit?

My biggest fear thankfully didn't come to pass; thanks to the generosity of Mt. Zion Baptist Church, my co-workers and some of my out of town friends, Mama and the kids had an excellent holiday. Even I got some presents (which I certainly wasn't expecting), but the biggest thing was getting the Trusty Steed to Durham to visit my mother and aunt and back without a hitch. Missed seeing my brother and his new baby, but that's okay; he's always at my mom's house, and we get along like oil and water anyway.

I guess the biggest thing since New Year's Day is that I've finally gotten serious about wanting to lose weight. Nothing faddish or fancy, no Atkins or South Beach diets or anything like that. Let's call this one the Po' Man's Diet. I can't afford a lot of health food and the like (even though we're on Food Stamps), so I use portion control and keep track of what I eat with a cheap food diary I picked up at Borders ($3.95). I try to keep my calories below 2500 a day* and my fat intake to 30% of that. I pay a lot of attention to the nutrition labels on the back of the packages. I've taken up yoga and pilates**, and -- if I can ever learn the moves -- plan to get into t'ai-c'hi. So far I've lost about 10 pounds, but I won't be satisfied until I hit 185 and therefore won't be mistaken for Shamu the Killer Whale.

The big negative of late, however, is that the Beast has made new inroads into my mind. He's gotten quiet since late November, but now relentlessly goes around all the mental barriers I put up. Most of his attacks now seem to have as their source the fact that I used to make 3-4 times as much as I used to when I worked at the ad agency and had a lot more fun. And didn't have to deal with the public at all. It's getting harder and harder to keep from getting depressed when he starts up a fresh attack.

It's said that once you stop looking for what you want, it comes to you. Or something like that. Maybe now that I've stopped looking, a better job with more money will fall into my lap.

Hmm, maybe the Flying Monkeys will come and whisk me off to Oz, too.***

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* All that running around at work has some benefit; at a calculated calorie burn rate of about 3-4 calories a minute, I can knock off between 1350-1800 calories a day. And yeah, sometimes I fill the hole with a cookie or a slice of cake.

** Don't be fooled, guys; you see only women doing this stuff on the commercials and videos, but it's intense enough for us dudes, too. Check out vids by yoga instructor Rodney Yee if you don't believe me. Intense stuff. There are also football players and soldiers using yoga, too.

***Glinda the Good Witch: giggity, giggity!

Tsunami Warning

2006-12-22T19:38:00.000-05:00

I don't think I'll get a chance to post again before Christmas -- now a scant 52 hours away -- so I suppose I'd better make this a good one, neh?

I've decided that the best analogy that describes modern-day Christmas (circa 2006) is like a tsunami. You know when it hits, it's going to hit hard. You don't really want to be in the area, but you absolutely can't resist seeing what the effects will be.

Still, I can think of worse things to be hit by. And we are doing much better this year than we were this time last year, when we had no heat*, not much money coming in, the Trusty Steed sitting moribund in the driveway, the threat of eviction loomed on the horizon, and even Christmas itself was in jeopardy.

This year, thank God, there is abundant heat, the rent is paid up, there's money coming in (at least through the holidays) and -- thanks to the generosity of GIHN, Mt. Zion Baptist Church, some good friends now living sadly out-of-state, and my co-workers -- the kids are going to have a deliriously Merry Christmas. Mt. Zion even helped get the Trusty Steed a badly needed and long overdue tune up (it still grumbles a bit when I go faster than 60, but at least it's not threatening to fly apart altogether).

What a difference a year makes.

The store had adopted my family for Christmas and gave us the presents today. I was absolultely overwhelmed at the amount of gifts my co-workers and managers had collected for us. And after I'd been such a b-----d all year. Thanks, guys, for putting up with all the growls and snarls. There is a Cratchit under all this Scrooge. Somewhere. Really.

Still, there's a part of me that feels...uncomfortable. My kids are taken care of, but it bugs the crap out of me that there are other kids who may not have anyone to adopt them. It really chaps my hids that there are homeless families on Christmas. I know GIHN is helping at least one right now. I can think of few fates more horrible than being homeless during the holidays, and it bugs me that I'm not yet in a position to help out where it counts. Oh, I drop what little money I can into the Salvation Army kettles when I see one, but I'd love to help in a way that really counts. I'd love to win a fat Powerball prize and start funding food banks and emergency utility aid and holiday toy drive efforts. Not for any personal aggrandizement, either. Just so some kid who wants that particular toy at Christmas would get it. Just so a family whose breadwinner won't be working after the New Year could eat and focus on securing that next job. Just so those families whose presents were stolen** could still find a reason to get up on Christmas morning.

Just so.

Yeah, yeah, I'm a bleeding-heart liberal. Sue me.

Let me finish up what may be my last post of the year with a thought. Just a little one:

This season isn't about Santa Claus, or Rudolph, or Jingle Bells, or Tickle Me Elmo. It's not about Christmas trees or carols or festive displays or pretty lights and tinsel. It's not even about family, or Peace on Earth, or giving gifts or Good Will Toward Men, although those are always a good idea.

It's about that little baby born 2000-some years ago in that manger. And why He was sent here. And what he represented. And even why he later died.

It's all about...love.

And when everything else -- wealth, fame, beauty -- has faded away, love abides.

Merry Christmas.

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*The gas had been off for a year due to nonpayment, so we were literally heating a 1200 square foot house with space heaters I'd buy from a nearby discount store with my meager earnings. Four of them kept us from freezing to death, although it still wasn't the most comfortable environment. We still have those heaters, and everytime I get to feeling cocky, I haul one out and take a hard look at it as a reminder.

**We've all heard of families who come home to find that some yahoo has broken in and stolen every present from under their tree. People that do this and ruin someone else's Christmas ought to be taken out back somewhere and shot.

The Fires of Winter

2006-12-12T18:27:00.000-05:00

I was watching the local news a little while ago* when they aired a report of a homeless man who was badly burned over half his body when his campfire went out of control. The News & Record mentions it here. What really got my dander up, however, is that the reporter and some of the people interviewed for supporting information seemed aghast that the accident happened only a half-mile from Greensboro Urban Ministry and it's homeless shelter. As though the guy actually belonged in a shelter for some reason. As though it was assumed that "well, he's homeless, he should go to a homeless shelter."

Lemme tell ya, folks, when my family and I lost out home earlier this year, the absolute last thing I wanted to do was go to a homeless shelter. We got lucky and linked up with GIHN, but there are others not as fortunate, and who have to go to Urban Ministry's or the Salvation Army's shelter, despite any reservations they may have. I had my reasons for not wanting to go to as shelter; I'm sure this guy had his reasons as well. Even if it was for the sheer pride of it all.

Of course, at the end of the day, it's a damn shame that he has to be homeless in America at all.

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*Yes, this is unusual. Although I'm a news junkie, I often don't get to watch it much anymore because I'm either out running errands in the Trusty Steed or Ness has switched the TV to something she wants to watch and subsequently hidden the remote.

Chestnuts Roasting on a...Oh, Wait. That's Me...

2006-12-02T16:07:00.000-05:00

Well, as you Gentle Readers can no doubt tell from the time/date stamp, I've been away for awhile. Sorry about that, but I can tell you that the reason has been because I've been working. A lot. I've gone to a full half-hour-shy-of-40 hours-a-week at work in order to give the family some Christmas presents and to get bills caught up before the weather turns cold for good. Heads up: as a result, I'll be posting very sporadically through the first of the year at least.

But for now, some updates: Thanksgiving went without a hitch (except for the inevitable refereeing of the kids) and I even got the turkey right (for a change...) It usually comes out very dry. This year I dumped most of a can of chicken broth into the turkey before I closed the oven bag. Succulent and delicious! Leftovers this year weren't the ordeal they normally are.

I forgot to title my last post. I've typed one in, as you can see. Gotta keep consistency, after all.

I seem to be getting used to working in retail, even at Christmas (or maybe I'm just suffering from Stockholm Syndrome). Mixing it up with The Public both smart and stupid is just another walk in the park for me now. Still, I get the most boneheaded questions (like the lady that wanted to know if the Christmas trees on display were the same ones in the boxes right next to them even though there's a picture of the thing on the box) and the weirdest calls from the front registers (like the trainee who wanted to know if the clearance price she was seeing on her register was actually a clearance price. Well, duh, sweetheart...) The thing about work that bothers me the most now is when I don't get to finish cleaning up the department or setting up merchandise due to constant interruptions, and then having to end my shift with half my to-do list undone. Still, my fellow daytime co-workers have learned to have the coffee hot when I hit the door in the morning, and to not annoy "Michael B" too much until he's had a cup. Most days, anyway.

Could be worse; all the managers I had problems with are gone, along with, sadly, some I liked. And the ones I didn't like, I hated with a cold-flame passion. But I like all the current managers, especially my department head (Hi, O4!) She's got the same "get-it-done-however" attitude I have. Scary, no?

The Beast has quieted down some since my last post. I think just staying so busy has kept him off balance. Still, he manages to get in a jab every now and then. His latest tactic involves sowing doubt that I'll ever get back in school, or get my diploma once there.

My mom turned 70 today. Thank God. There were a few times we didn't think she'd make it, but not only is she still quite active, she's become cantankerous in her old age. Gee, can't imagine what that's like...

Took the family to the Greensboro Christmas parade* earlier today. It was actually good this year. The most impressive presentation was by Lawndale Baptist Church, who had people dressed as ancient shepherds, leading an assortment of domestic animals, including honest-to-God camels** and a huge float with the Three Wise Men and the Nativity, although the baby playing Jesus was a bit old I think (had to have been at least a year old).

We seem to have made a friend in the projects. There are numerous feral cats living in the woods nearby; they avoid us, we leave them alone (although a few have fallen prey to some of the cars that travel up and down the street). One calico cat, however, seems to have been someone's pet, once. We feed her whenever she decides to show up, and we can tell she's dying to come in, but as much as we'd like that, our lease (and landlord) say that's a no-no. I've been thinking of having someone come get her before the maintenance people decide to start a anti-cat pogrom but I haven't had much time to work on the idea. Calico*** also shows up on an irregular basis, so it's hard to predict where she'll be at any given time.

We've officially got copies of Ness' Christmas list. Oh, Lord. Suffice it to say it's two pages long, front and back, and composed mostly of items that Daddy will never be able to afford. Short of winning the Powerball, anyway. I asked her to prioritize the top ten items she wanted and there are a few things that I may be able to get, if I don't get kung-fu'ed by little old ladies shopping for their grandkids first.

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*It's official name is the Greensboro Jaycees Holiday Parade, but I don't care what anybody says, it's a Christmas parade if it hits in December.

**I have no idea where in the world this place found camels. Pretty docile ones, too.

***I know it's lame, but we couldn't agree on a better name for her.

That Sense of Belonging

2006-11-16T18:47:00.000-05:00

Our lives finally seem to have mellowed and aged into the smooth paste of normalcy bordering on boredom. Of late, nothing spectacular has happened to us. The kids have settled into the ebb and flow of their schools, Mama now has as much space and time as she wants to practice her yoga, and I work. A lot. In retail. At Christmas.

God help me.

I can't help but reflect on a great irony: I spend my days helping others get their Christmas shopping done, while being quite unable to do any of my own. Even if I had the money (which I don't), I don't have the time, since my hours have gone up in direct proportion to the number of sales the store in having and the freight pouring in and the people flooding in looking for holiday deals.

To make matters worse, the Beast have begun his annual campaign of reminding me how good past Christmases have been compared to the one that's got its laser pointed between my eyes.

"Ah," you say, "But you're working, you're family is intact, you're no longer homeless."

All that is true, but I don't feel as though I belong.

Explain? Alright, I'll try. The holidays* are taken as that time of year when families draw closer together, kids' wishes are fulfilled, fantasies take flight, and goodwill is generally spread all around.

Now, remember that in America all this is driven by the engine of consumerism. Madison Avenue has somehow managed to equate the joy of the holidays with "make that credit card smoke, Buster, or you ARE the Weakest Link. Goodbye." Everything is spend-buy-spend-buy. Even if you're making the presents (as sean carter suggested in his Comment) you still have to buy the raw materials, and those prices go up a little every year.

As a marginal participant in the American Economy at best, I feel as though I'm missing out if I can't give out any Christmas gifts. I feel like an outsider looking in on a great big shindig. I feel like I don't belong.

Got it? Don't worry if you didn't. Makes little sense to me too.

Suffice it to say, then, that the remaining weeks of 2006 promise to get very crazy for me indeed and leave it at that.

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*from this point on understand that by "the holidays", I mean not only Christmas, but also Hanukkah and Kwanzaa as well

Full Frontal Christmas

2006-10-30T18:04:00.000-05:00

I'd been dutifully ignoring the signs since September 1st; ignoring all input related to the coming event, refusing to watch any promos or previews about it, not even listening to the odd bits of music that chirped about it. But lately, I've finally had it shoved straight into my face.

Christmas. Full Frontal.

Bah, humbug!

("What's that? Is he crazy? It's Christmas, fergoshsakes! How can he be so Grinchy?")

Well, okay, maybe "bah, humbug" is a tad extreme, but pull your chairs closer and I'll explain what's going on in my warped little brain concerning the Christmas holiday.

When I was a boy in Durham, the first week in September usually brought a tingle in my being that was overwhelmed by the first weeks of school, but would quickly grow in intensity. By Halloween, it would be noticeable and would fold itself into the excitement of trick-or-treating, the Great Pumpkin on TV, and the arrival of the Sears Wish Book in the mail. By Thanksgiving, I could barely eat my turkey and watch the parades with the excitement of the approaching holiday. The sight of Santa Claus at the end of the Macy's parade would set a fire of excitement that only blazed brighter and brighter so that my mid-December, I'd be virtually bouncing off the walls. Christmas Day would culminate in such an orgy of gift giving, gift-getting and family visits that December 26th always was a heavy day of depression for me.

However, that's not the case today. As I've aged, I've become more acutely aware of the marketing buildup before Christmas. This in turn has made me more acutely aware that I don't make much money, and can therefore not afford to give many gifts.

For those of you who have not been badly bitten by the Poverty Monster (oh, how I envy you...) here's the breakdown: I live in constant fear from September 1st right up through December 25th that Mike and Ness will wake up Christmas morning and find nothing under her tree save a few random dust bunnies.

That is my number 2 fear, right behind watching a tornado bear down on me.

Sure I somehow manage to pull it off, most years. Some years have been awful close, though*. And as it is, I can't buy presents for anyone other than my immediate family. I can't remember that last year I gave my Mom a Christmas present.

However, there's still a month or two to go. Who knows? Maybe one of those hundreds of resumes I scattergunned all over the Triad will finally bear fruit.

Hope it does so soon. I thought I heard reindeer being test-flown the other night...

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*2004 was Annus Horribilis as far as Christmas presents go. I'd just gotten hired at Kohl's, and didn't get much for my first paycheck, so I could only give Ness part of what she wanted, and had to promise Mike and Mama I'd use part of my tax refund in January to get their presents.

Dumping Ground

2006-10-30T17:57:00.000-05:00

Cara Michele posted today about a case of "dumping"; seems a homeless friend of hers tried to employ the ultimate end to his problem, spent some time in the hospital for his effort, and got dumped right back on the streets when the shelters were found to be full.

Sadly, this is kinda par for the course sometimes. Instead of getting the help they need, some homeless people get kicked by the system again and again until they feel they're in such a tight box the only way out is to End It All. I know the thought crossed my mind during my own bout with homelessness.

It doesn't have to be this way, but it is. I'm reminded of the recent story out of LA where ambulance drivers were caught dumping homeless patients on Skid Row. What is the rationale for dumping people right back into the very situation they're so desperately trying to escape? When did it become okay to throw people right back to the sharks of poverty and homelessness when it's clear they need help escaping?

Saddest of all, why am I not surprised something like this has occurred in Guilford County?

Avolo's Riposte

2006-10-25T19:45:00.000-04:00

*Sigh* It's hard having acquaintances like avolokitisvara, who prick your intellect and conscience in such a way that you absolutely have to stop and think for a minute.

I was going to post about something else entirely, but I thought that avolo's comments to the last post absolutely had to have a response. So, here are some select quotes from his comments, with my responses. I had to be kinda choosy; I couldn't do a blanket response because time is short.

I'd love to sit down and discuss the issues of the day with this guy over a beer -- that'd be one lively confab, I bet...

“But to concede a lifetimes worth of battles into one experience is wrong.” True enough, but maybe I didn’t make myself clear here. The guy reading to his daughter was utilizing just one weapon against the raging beast of poverty; one that is too often underutilized, especially by the Black community (more on that in a moment). Baby steps, avolo. Baby steps…

“But lets be clear there are MANY things that can put/keep/ trap someone in poverty…Am I to believe that you dont love your daughters nor did your father* love your wife because of the economic hardship” Yes, there are many facets to being trapped in poverty, but instilling a love of learning in a child is, again, one weapon against that. Granted, not the only weapon, but a pretty damn powerful one. And what greater expression of love for your child than to make sure she has every weapon at her disposal for combating poverty.

“Ignorance is like a big big big big river, it can drown you.” Truer words were never spoken. In fact, I’d say ignorance is a friggin’ large and deep ocean that invites too many to swim in its warm waters. And too many enjoy doing it even after they discover that the warmth comes from the excess of urine that’s being discharged into it… That’s why the boat of learning and critical thinking is so desperately needed.

“Being Black? Not as important as you d think it is.” I disagree, my friend. It’s very important. Perhaps too important. Blackness (is that a viable word?) is a gravitic pull upon too many of our youth, who are brought up to believe that BLACK must come before HUMAN. It’s a cynical notion that being exploited to perfection by the hip-hop culture, which is feeding our kids (and to a somewhat lesser extent, white and latino kids) the constant refrain of “You gotta keep it real. All you need is some bling and street cred. School is for suckas!” And then later wondering why “The Man” gets everything he ever wants while they simply get arrested.

"But that little girl and my little boy will need more than to be read to for America worth its salt in the sand." I agree. See the above paragraphs in my reply.

“I hate it when people make derogatory assumptions about the Black community, wherever it is, without considering that these afflictions affect ALL communities in an economic zone, regardless of race, or ethnicity.” I hate it, too, avolo, but (and this is coming from a black man) some of those assumptions are on the money. They’ve entered to popular zeitgeist because they exist. Are all of them true? Of course not. But I’ve seen black fathers abandon their families, black families buying big-ticket items instead of preparing their children for careers other than criminal or McDonald’s; black girls learning how to manipulate men instead of numbers or chemical formulae; black boys looking down their noses at their more educated peers (or beating them up); black mothers too damn lazy to go across the street to apply at the new clothes store, but hauling their asses across town to take in whatever new club opens up; black families on welfare not even making token attempts to get off of it; groups of young blacks hanging around public places intimidating others instead of finding ways to be a benefit. I have seen these things growing up, and I see them today. And it’s so needless, avolo. However, this is America. Ostensibly, it’s a free country. If they want to ignorant, half-savage criminals, fine. But why drag the decent, hard-working people with foresight down with them?

“That you are seemingly, with ease, demonizing the Black father as irresponsible…Your drawing too many conclusions about the quality of men you see when you see women with their children.” Okay, I may be generalizing, but again, I’ve seen it too often to ignore its existence. If more black men would take more interest in their families beyond getting into their girlfriend’s panties, the black community would be a lot better off. Are there black men who stay with their families? Sure there are. But there are too few who do, and black children are suffering as a result.

“Brood sow? Thats mean and demeans people who need public assistance to find a foothold in a safety net that they fell through.” That is mean, but I’m not denigrating everyone on public assistance (remember, I’m there, too…for now). No, I’m aiming that at the lazy women who only seem to find energy to propel themselves out of their ennui long enough go to a seedy nightclub and screw yet another guy who cares nothing for her. Such people see welfare as the be-all and end-all. Fortunately, such people are in the minority of welfare recipients. Most are decent, hard-working sorts who just need a hand…for now.

“"I wanted to congratulate the man on his foresight and encourage him to keep up the excellent work" Dont. Its like someone congratulating you for going to the bathroom. Its something you re supposed to do.” Yes, but when a toddler goes to the potty for the first time instead of blowing out yet another Pull-Up, do we praise him or do we simply snarl “’Bout damn time!” Yes, the man was supposed to do it, but it's more important that he did it, which is more than I can say for all too many men in the black community. Still, a little encouragement goes a long way.

------------------------
*For the record, I grew up without a father; my biological father chose not to hang around after being with my mother (thus I never developed a relationship with him, although I don’t hate him) and my stepfather was a drunken, abusive lout who defined spending time with the family as beating the hell out of us and driving off to drink some more with his equally loutish friends. Hopefully, cirrhosis will stop his foolishness sooner rather than later.

Warfare

2006-10-17T19:54:00.000-04:00

Mama and I spend most Saturday evenings at Borders here in town. I especially like to go after a hard day or week at work, although I avoid the place if there is a live musical act schedules for the nights we go. Sometimes we take the kids; last Saturday we have Ness and Mike with us. Mike immediately peeled off towards the manga section, and I went with Ness to look for books on Anne Frank.*

While we were prowling the children's section for books that broke the story of the Holocaust and WWII down to a kid's level, we became witness to a fight.

A strapping man was in total warfare, swatting away at his enemy as powerfully as he could. He wielded his weapon like an expert, landing blow after blow, trying to force his foe back. I couldn't help but marvel at the sheer brutality of his attacks, effective as they were, and found myself pulling for him. The man's daughter (maybe three years old) was there, and seemed as engrossed as I was, especially since she seemed to be the focus of the battle.

Did I mention that the fight was for that little girl's future? Against the twin enemies of ignorance and poverty? And that the weapon the man wielded was -- a book?

So what? you say. Guys read to their kids all the time.

Ah, but there is one image of the scene I haven't yet recounted: The man and his little girl were both black. And I can say with conviction, my friends, that that is a scene not witnessed enough in the black American community.

The man was reading to his little girl with enthusiasm, without worrying if he sounded silly, and without rushing as if having something better to do. The girl, cradled in his lap, was enthusiastically trying to read along, and frequently interrupting her father to point out something interesting on the page.

Why did I describe the scene as a fight? Because it occurred to me how this man was striking at the very roots of poverty and ignorance. And with such a simple weapon as the power of reading and forming ideas. That man was laying the groundwork for that girl to become something other than window-dressing in a rap video. Or a streetwalker. Or some drunken brute's punching bag. Or a brood sow waiting for yet another welfare check to show up. He was making sure, through conveying the sheer joy of reading, that his little girl would one day have the capacity to grow up, grab hold of the underpinnings of this rotted society, and give it a good hard shake.

I mentioned to Ness how good it was that the father was reading to his daughter. She just shrugged her shoulders. Not surprising; she was focused on fulfilling her own objective, but she doesn't seem to recall that Mama and I read to her when she was that age. A lot. And she's seen us reading every chance we've got. She's become a voracious reader herself, and as a result, teacher after teacher have complimented us on how smart she is.** Still, I don't think the scene was entirely lost on her.

I think everyone knows that education is one way to break the grip of poverty. And one way to jump-start a kid's brain and make it thirst for knowledge is the simple act of reading. Somewhere in all that absorption of knowledge is bound to be ways to break the cycle of poverty and make sure it's driven far from the child's life.

And again, it's such a simple thing. And yet so powerful.

I wanted to congratulate the man on his foresight and encourage him to keep up the excellent work, but by the time we found Ness' books and got back to where they were, he and his daughter were gone. Hopefully, he'll read these words here and know that he struck a mighty blow for his daughter's future intellect that night. I salute you, sir. Years from now, I hope you'll have the pleasure of hearing your daughter rattle off some fact that indicates that she could only have come to it by dint of critical thought and know that you were the one who planted that seed on that long ago October night.

Oh, and we found a copy of Anne Frank's diary. I bought it, and a presentation board from Walgreens across the street to boot. Couldn't really afford them, but what the hell -- it gives poverty and ignorance impressive shiners.

-----------------------
She's recently become engrossed with Anne Frank's story after learning about it at the library. She actually wants to do an extra-credit project based on her life and the events occurring at the time. Of course, there's no way I'm going to dampen her enthusiasm. Previously she wanted to absorb as much knowledge as she could about the Titanic, after seeing the movie and falling in love with the theme song.

**Forgive me a little braggadocio. But we've worked hard to make sure that Ness won't just amount to yet another pedestrian waste of flesh. To see our efforts bearing fruit like her quest to learn more about Anne Frank and the Holocaust is very gratifying.

That I Be Not Judged

2006-10-10T19:00:00.000-04:00

When I began this blog (seems like an eternity ago), I recall dithering over whether or not to allow Comments, as other blogs did. My reticence was born of the fact that I'd participated in online discussion boards which nine times out of ten ended up in minutiaic discussions on how to best split hairs or flamewars. The decision was made for me by the terms of use on Greensboro 101, which required that Comments be enabled.

I'm glad I did enable those Comments. I'm always learning something.

Specifically, the mighty kat confirmed something I was afraid was slowly occurring, but didn't want to admit: I was becoming judgmental. I Forgot Where I Came From. I Failed To Walk In The Other Guy's Shoes (pardon the pun).

I got...judgy.

To wit: you recall, two posts ago, I rated an (ostensibly*) homeless guy using the Shoe Test Cara taught me as a set of criterion, among others, in making a decision whether or not to help him. I eventually decided not to.* kat nailed me good; I could've tried to glean more information. Becuase I didn't, I apparently slid myself right into that same pigeonhole that other less enlightened people were comfortably nestled in.

The clincher came from gtv. Yeah, the guy's arrogant sometimes (by his own admission), but he was on the money with his Comment. Here's the part that grabbed me, in his own words:

First I listen to their pitch and based on their
demeanor, sincerity AND their tone of voice to determine the integrity of the
person. For example, a normal person and a crackhead could say the exact same
thing like "I'm homeless, I need help for me and my family, and could you please
spare any change you may have kind sir?", but the former would look me in the
eye when saying it, isn't pushy and seems to be genuine in their plea for help
while the latter looks, acts and talks like a crackhead! I have also, on
occasion, asked if they would like to share their story with me over lunch (my
treat) and some have accepted the offer. You'd be amazed what you could learn
just by talking to people. You'd be just as amazed what you might be missing out
on by just looking at their shoes...

I remember my interviews with Tim and Ron. Both of them looked me in the eye as we talked. Neither liked being homeless, but there was that spark of "This isn't the end of me" in their eye. I doubt a liar or a crackhead could fake that kind of defiance of circumstance.

As they say on South Park, "I learned something today." The ugly something is that I'm slipping back into judgementalism. I have to watch that. The pretty something is that fakers can be discovered with just a little personal contact, or at least, much closer observation.

Always good to be snapped back into place by one's peers. Thanks, guys.

---------------------------
*Now, I'll still use the term ostensibly because we do have some fakers around here. The N&R did a story on them some years ago, and I think the local Fox affiliate did a short on-air article as well. There is a small minority of people, for whatever reason, that do try to beat the system by panhandling, although they have the wherewithal not to.

**In going back over the post, I find I neglected to mention that we were several lanes away from the guy in heavy traffic. I couldn't have helped him regardless. Not without causiing a wreck, anyway.

Being There

2006-10-10T18:27:00.000-04:00

A representative of the government's efforts to end homelessness came to town (well, Jamestown) last week. As usual, Yours Truly didn't hear about it until well after the fact. Would've liked to have been there; I'll bet I'd've been the only person in that room who's actually been homeless. Luckily, Cara Michele was all over things, as usual. She talks about it here.*

I guess it's just as well. Near as I can remember, I was at work that day. No doubt I would've been too exhausted to contribute meaningfully to the discussion.

Still, I don't like the idea that I didn't help out because I wasn't there. I could've lived with being present but ineffective. But I didn't help out because I wasn't there at all. And that rankles. A lot.

So what would my presence have brought to the table that the other worthies wouldn't have? I guess just my presence at all. Like I said a moment ago, I bet I would've been the only person in the room that had ever suffered homelessness. Maybe my being there would've put a face (ugly though it is) on the homelessness problem in the Triad. Maybe I could've caught up with the guy afterward and put a bug or two in his ear. Maybe simply have slipped him a piece of paper with the URLs for Cara's and my blogs. Maybe given him a piece of information that would've helped in the fight against homelessness. Maybe just been there. Sometimes, just being there is powerful enough; just ask Nichelle Nichols.**

It just rankles me that I missed an opportunity like that. Maybe I'm getting slack in my old age. Maybe I'm more burned out than I realize. Maybe Post Traumatic Stress Disorder is setting in.*** I don't know anymore.

I do know that I sometimes I need to speak up, and I'm sometimes too all in to do it. More's the pity.

--------------------------------
* In fact, she's always ten steps ahead of me on this effort. I envy her being so on top of things. In my own defense, however, it wouldn't bother me unduly if the events of February to May, 2006 were tossed in the ash can of other forgotten things in the back of my mind.

**Who you will recognize as Lieutenant Uhura on Star Trek (finally worked in a plug for one of my fave TV shows...) The story goes that she was going to quit the show due to the scarcity and lack of quality of her scenes. At a social function, she met none other than the Man Himself, Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, who exhorted her to stick with it because her very presence, even in the background, spoke volumes about the presence of negroes (the term at the time) in society. The rest, of course, is TV history.

***I'm not making light of this. PTSD is a real problem that manifests after all kinds of stressful situations. It's not just "shell-shock" anymore.

The Haggard Sole

2006-10-04T19:04:00.000-04:00

And speaking of homelessness...

I know I haven't been active much in that arena lately, on the blog or in the arena. Not out of a sense of "psh! I got mine..." but just out of the afromentioned burnout and trying to put our lives back together.* There's just a lot to do for ourselves right now, and frankly I feel guilty for missing out on the fight. I know, I know -- you gotta do for you and yours first, but there's still the nagging notion that we went through that three-month nightmare for a reason.

Still, it was an eye-opening experience. I learned a lot. Sometimes I even get to apply what I've learned.

Take, for instance the guys on the street corner with the Hungry.Homeless.GodBless signs. I remember mentioning to Cara Michele about struggling to distinguish the ones who actually need help from the ones who're just trying to get over on the system. She told me to look at their shoes. Aha, the nicer/more expensive the shoes, the less likely this is a person actually needing help.

A couple weeks ago, I approached a corner having just gotten off of Wendover Avenue headed toward town. An older man was standing there strategically with a cardboard sign. My eyes immediately went to his feet. Hmm, worn walking shoes, probably picked up from the Goodwill. There's someone with him. His wife, perhaps? She seems slightly older. She has a cane; maybe she's partially disabled. Still, he's carrying a sign instead of actively trying to better his position. Help him, yes or no? I decided to give him a buck coupled with a word of encouragement and advice, but blast it! I had spent it on gas already. Plus, the light had changed and the guy behind me looked eager to see how far he could shove his SUV into my trunk.

Okay, maybe next time.

In contrast, the other day, Mama and I were headed home from the grocery store when we saw a guy at the corner of West Market and Spring Garden St. He had the requisite sign. I checked out his feet. Brand-new walking shoes! I looked him over then with a very critical eye. The guy was younger than I was. He had on a short-sleeved shirt that allowed him to sport a pair of very well developed arms. The shirt and the jeans were quite clean and in good shape. He had a spring in his step as he paced his chosen corner seeking handouts. He didn't have the world-weary look of someone who was tired of fighting to survive. Even given Cara Michele’s admonition that mental illness isn’t always evident, this guy looked too much like he’d gone for an evening constitutional and decided to pick up a little spare change from passers-by.

Yeah. I did pass by. Without looking back. So did a lot of other people.

I know that sounds cruel. That guy may well have needed help after all. But there was just too much evidence to the contrary. In the end, I stuck to my usual criterion: if he was in that good a shape, he could’ve been out doing better for himself. After all, if a fat old curmudgeon like me can stumble into work every day, I know a strapping buck like that can too.

------------------------
*Homelessness can disrupt lives much more than most people know. We're still taking care of business that got postponed from last February that we're just now able to pick back up on. Those who've been without a roof overhead for far longer no doubt come back to total train-wrecks of lives.

The Security of Mundanity

2006-10-04T18:32:00.000-04:00

Been away awhile (well, duh! what else is new...) Sorry about that. But at least I know why I've been so absent: I'm just plain burned out..

Had to happen eventually; our lives have been mostly on fast-forward for the past month or so as we try and cram ten times the amount of information and business into half the time frame we've become accustomed to dealing with. Even though we now have use of the Trusty Steed*, the time just seems to slip away.

Paradoxically, we've also been contending with a growing ennui, which is probably to be expected having returned to a sense of normalcy bordering on mundanity.

And yet, I'll take the boring mundane over the "excitement" of being homeless any day.

----------------------
*It's still going, even after that business with the transmission and the fact that it still badly needs a tune-up. Still, it's the toughest little car I've ever owned. Even my old '63 Chevy Malibu I owned in the late '80s (may it rest in peace) would've given up the ghost by now. See, this is why I prefer Chevys over any other car (sorry, Ford fans!)

Quickies Redux

2006-09-13T20:38:00.000-04:00

Just a few quick hits...

Finally moved all our stuff out of the storage unit* and am in the process of getting everything either put away or thrown away. In the meanwhile, the apartment looks like Hurricane Katrina and her little sister Bebe swept through. But at least Ness has all her toys back, and the moths left Mama's clothes alone.

Missed an important task force here in town the other day (due to the fun-and-games of the previous paragraph.) A homelessness task force met not too terribly far from the apartment the other night. I wish I'd known about it so I could report on it, but I'm sure Cara Michele has been all over it. There'll be another soon in High Point. I'm currently negotiating with the Trusty Steed to see if we can make that one.

Apparently, even Paradise has its dark side; just take a look.

--------------------------
*Had to do it quickly (seems we have to do that a lot lately...) I didn't have the money for another month, and the manager, after first telling me I had a week, suddenly turned around and told me a day into the move that I only had two days. Gee, think I could've used that information sooner?

Get Thee Behind Me, Murphy

2006-09-01T19:19:00.000-04:00

Had a bit of a scare morning before last. I was on my way to work in my Trusty Steed, and waiting for the stoplight at the entrance to our apartment complex to change. When it did, the two cars ahead cleared on, and I pressed the gas pedal to do the same. The Steed made the customary "vroom" sound, but curiously enough, made no forward progress. In fact, we rolled backward a few feet.

Hmm. Okay, make sure the car's in gear. Check. Make sure I wasn't riding on the parking brake. Check. Make sure I was indeed awake and not dreaming. No tornadoes, swimming cats, or Dolly Parton wearing red fishnet stockings* around, so, check.

Tried the gas pedal again. Customary "vroom" sound. Rolled backward a few feet.

Now, fighting a growing panic, I went through it again. Gear. Brakes. Dolly. "Vroom." Backward. My mind raced through a host of possibilities, but I knew it would boil down to one inescapable conclusion; the worst possible thing that could happen to one's car: transmission failure.

A car pulled up first behind me, then next to me. The couple within offered to help (risking their own car in the process, as they were in the oncoming lane), but I waved them on. My first thought was to get out of traffic, and I didn't want these nice folks to become traffic statistics trying to help me. Making sure there were no more cars coming up behind, I let the Steed roll backward into a driveway, then opened the door, and applied my Mighty Thews** to the task of pointing the thing back down the way I came. before I did, I glanced up the street where I had stalled out and saw a huge reddish slick about a gallon in diameter spreading on the pavement.

Oh, boy. Not good; not good at all.

Luckily, that part of the road sloped down then back up, so I was able to coast to a stop about halfway back to the apartment, a few minutes' walk away. Then I turned full-time to the task of finding out what was wrong. Having checked all the conditions I could without going under the hood, I finally climbed out and did so, not knowing what I'd see (I'm pretty good at diagnosing the Steed's problems, but I don't know nothin' about no transmissions.) To my shock, a hose next to the radiator had worked loose, and was gushing transmission fluid!

Quickly killing the engine, I took a closer look at the hose coupling. There seemed to be no damage; the hose and its clamp had simply worked loose. Whew! If that's all it was, maybe there was hope yet. I quickly called in to work and told them not to expect me for several hours, if at all, then headed for the house to get a screwdriver (why I had none in the trunk, I don't know, but I needed to change into clothes I didn't mind getting dirty, too.

A few quick screw-turns later, I had the hose securely clamped back on, but there was a nagging feeling that this may be the tip of the iceberg. What if there were transmission damage? Shaking the sound of ringing cash registers out of my head, I headed down to the nearest convenience store to use the last of my money on a bottle of transmission fluid.

Along the way, the Beast decided it was an opportune time for a psychic attack: Hah! You waited and fought for over a year-and-a-half to get that car back, and now look. Walking again, not two weeks later! And you know you'll never get up enough money for transmission repairs or another car! Y'know, most poor people are only car repair away from eviction or bankruptcy. And you don't even have money for the repair! Why don't you just give up and head for the bus stop now?

This time, however, things were a little different. Instead of withering under the psychic assault and throwing myself a pity party, I started looking at the fortunates of the situation. One, it had happened near the house. Two, it hadn't happened on a more distant or heavily-traveled road. Three, it was something I could see, and therefore reach and deal with. Four, I'm still in good enough shape to walk, and even run if I have to, and I've memorized the bus routes and schedules. Five, so what? I like my little car, but if I have to give it up, I'll somehow get another.

That last stopped the Beast cold. I had done something to him I'd never done before: Gotten Philosophical. And you know what? It felt good. It actually felt good to simply say "Y'know what? So what?" and not feel any shame or anxiety.

With the space that little mental manuever bought me, I started planning. I laid out several scenarios, including the worst-case one: how to pay for transmission repairs or replacement if necessary. By the time I got the transmission fluid and got back, I had Plans A, B and C ready to go. While the Beast was still stunned at this turn of events, I boxed him up in his corner and gave him a few psychic smacks upside the head for daring to come out.

I know, most American adults can do this instinctively, but I've always been a little slow on the uptake. Understand, even as recently as a year ago, had something of this magnitude happened, I would have spent the better part of a week railing at unjust Fate and cursing an uncaring Universe for my bad luck. But this time, I basically just shrugged my shoulders.

With the bottle of fluid, another half bottle I had in the trunk, and the help of the driver who'd stopped to help me previously (he'd dropped his wife off at work and returned), I got the Steed back to the house. Another day, a trip to the Plasma Center and two more quarts of fluid later, the Steed could make short experimental trips, with just minor gear slippage. Today, I dumped in one final quart of fluid -- the max the Steed can contain -- and made it to work and back.

It still might have some minor transmission damage, but at least I can make short trips to work, the store and the repair shop, if necessary until I can get things squared away. But the most important thing was I've finally learned to roll with the punch while coming up with a Plan B. It's a great feeling.

----------------
*Yes, all of these things have appeared in my dreams at various times. Yes, they probably all have some deep id-driven meaning. Yes, I need a good shrink...

**Okay, I'm exaggerating a bit. But that's why I perfer a mid-size sedan to the minivans I used to own. They're a lot easier to push if need be.

Escape from the Cult of Personality

2006-08-29T20:08:00.000-04:00

Well, I hadn't planned on posting today, but after I read jnccarol's comments to the last post, I felt the need to defend myself. To wit:

jnccarol said...
You know,
you've gone on long enough without comment in this vein. Who made you arbiter of
morality? The sanctimonious tone of your ranting is disappointing. After all
you've been through, you still don't get it. It's not up to you to decide who's
'good' and who's not.You've maligned people unfairly here. I remember a recent
rant about Brad Pitt the day after I had read he was in Africa. I'm certainly not
gonna argue that Paris Hilton deserves regard or respect, but your tone is just
mean.

First, jnccarol, thanks for reading and commenting. Rest assured, however, that Paris isn't my usual target; just the one that I happened to read about after meeting with all those dedicated, hard-working people at Joseph's House. A target of convenience, if you will.

No, I'm not an arbiter of morality. It's not up to me who's good or bad -- the position of God is already filled by a very qualified individual. In point of fact, I ain't a saint. I'm not a Good Person. I've done and seen things that would make your hair fall out. In clumps. Things that you'll never read about here. I'm definitely not qualified to say who's Naughty or Nice. But I know self-absorbed, overindulgent, churlish behavior when I see it; the kind of behavior that always makes the headlines. The kind of behavior that makes you wonder if the perpetrators have had any positive adult influence at all. And it's a damned shame that no one will speak out against such behavior more. Or more loudly.

I just think it's sad and not a little stupid that we have millions more teachers, cops, firefighters, soldiers, clergy, builders, charitable volunteers and others of good will and clear vision that we never hear about, but a minority of vain, spoiled brats that we can't get away from.

And lest you think I'm down on all celebrities, take note: there are many that actually use their exalted status to help make the world a better place. Paul McCartney and Al Gore stump for the environment. Bruce Springsteen traditionally gives large donations to charities of the towns he plays. Johnny Carson was known as a very generous donor. There was an NBA player recently (I wish I could remember his name off the top of my head) that made the news for giving a very large sum for homelessness efforts*. Trouble is, he was only mentioned once, for doing something good. But Paris' press rolls on and on.

Meanwhile, there are teachers in Ness' school that never get any thanks of recognition for helping make my daughter so smart, unless Mama and I as parents thank them personally. Sad, that.

In a perfect world, the cult of personality would pit its power against society's ills and makes people's lives a little better, instead of sucking their adulation so dry there's nothing left for the true role models of society.

That, too, is sad.

--------------------------
*I wanted to blog about this guy, but I got tied up and couldn't get to a Web-capable computer.

Meanwhile, Back in Paris...

2006-08-27T17:15:00.000-04:00

On the heels of my last post, I thought we'd take a look at the flip side of the coin.

Hear of a chick named Paris Hilton? Sure you have. Wish I hadn't. The News & Record featured a story on her Friday about her efforts to be Taken Seriously as an entrepreneur and an "artist" (her word, certainly not mine*).

Having read everything of substance and import in the paper, I took a moment to scan the article for some mention in all of that self-hype of any good this woman has done for society, particularly the poor. Hmm, mention of her expensive cars. Mention of her expensive furs. Mention of how she hasn't taken any money from her rich family (yeah, right!) But no mention of donating to charities, or volunteering any of that expanse of time to helping out, or even serving on a charitable foundation. No mention of how she hasn't even looked down long enough to notice the poor people she's walking all over every day. No mention of her even toning down the massive juggernaut of her own ego and self-promotion.

In other words, typical Paris Hilton: spoiled and selfish.

So why am I letting this get under my skin? After all, I wasn't surprised to see this creature not helping wnyone other than herself, and there are a lot of Paris Hiltons out there. Why should this bother me so?

Becuase it absolutely kills me to see people like the GIHN volunteers, the people at Mt. Zion, and the people toiling in the hot sun at a site for Habitat for Humanity breaking their backs to help others and getting no publicity for it while spoiled brats like Paris Hilton constantly pump hours and millions into inflating their own superciliousness, and the media won't shut up about them. Frankly, it makes me sick.

I suppose it's just as well. It ensures that there are always normal people like myself**, Cara Michele and Kevin Barbieux ready to stick a pin in the zeppelin of such overinflated self-importance.

-----------------------------
*I oughta know; I am one.

** Well, relatively speaking...

Joseph's House

2006-08-27T16:46:00.000-04:00

In East Greensboro, a section of town sadly long used to being bereft of attention and hope, some of each landed here today in spades.

Joseph's House, a faith-based organization dedicated to helping homeless young men, opened up a house under the auspices of Mt. Zion Baptist Church. Mama and I went to the grand opening, where the house directors and other officials from the church gave tours and discussed how Joseph's House would fit into the overall efforts against homelessness in the Triad.

As I looked around the house, which is an older style brick home set in a neighborhood that still showed some of it's 1950s-1960s pedigree, I marveled at how nice everything looked. The renovations, decorations and setup were all very well done. The kitchen was spectacular, and made me envy having one like it*. According to one of the program directors, the initial capacity is 8 youths, with possibility for expansion later. The church plans to open a like setup for young women later on in another house.

A look through the brochure I got gives a good overview of the services Joseph's House plans to provide: not just shelter and food, but life skills training, counseling and case management, job training and substance abuse treatment and counseling referrals, and other such services intended to keep these young men from falling back into the hell of homelessness. I asked the directors if they had linked to community services, and of course they have, with close communication with such entities as Guilford JobLink and GTCC.

But obviously, Joseph's House (I never did discover the source of the name) provides something more. Hope, yes it provides that. Shelter and a hot meal too. But the real provision came to me as I was wandering about the house: dignity. It's tragic that any youth in America has to be homeless at all, but if it is to be, then at least there are places like Joseph's House that aren't one of the homeless-shelter-horror-stories we always hear about, but clean, safe, decent and able to help. Places that treat you like a human being who's going through a tough time instead of a lower life form that dared to slither in the back door. Places that treat you with dignity.

More importantly, it's one more front in the fight against homelessness, and a gap that has long needed to be filled. There is a pressing need not only in the Triad, but all over America for temporary housing for homeless singles. While lots of attention is being paid to homeless families -- as well it should -- we should not forget the young men and women who find themselves also fallen through the weave of the American tapestry onto the cold, hard pavement of homelessness and who subsequently have to sometimes do the unspeakable to survive.

As Martha Stewart is wont to say: It's a Good Thing.

Suffice it to say, not only did Mt. Zion Baptist step up to the plate, it swung and connected. Hard.

---------------------
*I still wouldn't like cooking, but at least I'd be in a nice setup...

Requiem for Pluto

2006-08-25T17:34:00.000-04:00

Very tired today (on my feet -- literally -- for over seven hours) so just a real short post. Kinda bummed, too: read in the paper this morning that Pluto is no longer a planet.*

I know, it has nothing to do with poverty in the Triad. But for a space buff from way back, it kinda hurts, y'know. I followed the debate on whether or not to demote the little guy; I was pulling for him.

----------------------------------------
*By the by, that's not me being quoted in the article, although seeing the moon, Saturn and Jupiter through a telescope still gives me goosebumps. Best show in the universe, and it's free.

Situation Normal

2006-08-21T19:43:00.000-04:00

Over the past few months, we’ve been slowly putting our lives back together, and with that has come my grappling of the concept of the benchmark for “normal” is. In other words, when could we consider things as having gotten back to normal?

I’ve discovered, to some dismay, that the line between normal and abnormal keeps shifting in response to our circumstances. I suppose in a way, that’s a Good Thing because it keeps me from being too strict, but I’m a creature of boundaries. I like to know what is and what is not.

When we were homeless, what I deemed would be “normal” was when we got our own living space and a TV to watch. When we got those things, “normal” became when I would get the car back and we’d be able to conduct business, look for work and shop like everybody else. Now that I have my Trusty Steed back, “normal” has shifted again, to securing a better job and maybe having the cable turned back on*. No doubt once I get those things, “normal” will redefine itself yet again.

Maybe it’s just a manifestation of my own greed. I hope not. If losing my home has taught me anything it’s to be thankful for what you have; it could all go away in an instant.

Still, I’d like to hit some semblance of normal, so I can finally know when to say “Okay, that’s enough; I’m done chasing. I just want to maintain what we have.”

Maybe I should just consider the Big Three -- home, car and job -- the benchmark and consider everything else gravy. But then there are school supplies, emergency savings, replacement costs, repair costs, and the like. And we’ll need an Internet connection at some point to more efficiently carry job searches and research. And Mike’s preparing for college, meaning he’ll need financial aid and a laptop. Ness is growing at a prodigious rate, so clothing is a factor. And I’d like to start setting aside money to buy my own house one day. And so forth and so on…

And I admit to a little gadget envy; I’d like to lay my hands on an MP3 player. Maybe LCD monitors for the computers.

And all of the above takes foldin’ money.

Well, at least there is a line, now. I guess I’ll just watch it shift awhile longer and trust that I’ll know that I’ve crossed over into Normal when I see Abnormal back over my shoulder. Whenever that is.

---------------------------
*That needs to happen before Battlestar Galactica airs its season premiere, or I’m gonna be real upset…

Potpourri

2006-08-21T19:28:00.000-04:00

Alright, I ran out of ideas for catchy post titles. Don't have a cow...

• Avolokitesvara submitted an excellent essay in the Comments section of "An Earnest Young Man". I happen to agree with most of it, but even if you don't, check it out. It's a good read, and there might be food for thought in there.

• Over the past few days, the News & Record has published some articles dealing with the homeless here in the Triad. I have to give them their props; they're all over this homeless thing (including giving Your Author his 15 minutes...) I haven't been able to link to them , but check them out. One ran yesterday, 8/20; the other ran last week and includes the latest homeless count for summer (742 here in Guilford County; a low number, but people move around more in warm weather, neh? So they're harder to count).

• I want to take a moment and mention the friends I made long before we were homeless and/or poor. they're the most excellent bunch. You've all had the privilege of meeting Jay -- who years ago put up with my attempts to kill his role-playing characters every week (hee, hee!) -- but there are many others I can't name due to lack of time and permission. They say that no man is an island, and my longtime bunch made sure that I was always fimrly a peninsula. Thanks, guys! (And I haven't forgotten those loans; I promise.)

To See Time Fly

2006-08-21T19:20:00.000-04:00

Holy Moley! Has it really been a week and a half already?!

At least this time I know where the time's gone. Since I got my Trusty Steed back, I've been running around getting all the things done that would've been impossible to get done on the bus. yes, gas prices are through the roof (actually, over the past few days they've dropped considerably -- I hope it's not the calm before the storm) but it's such a rapturous feeling knowing that the distance between points A and B is only a matter of a press of the gas pedal.

Still, I do feel guilty sometimes. I'm only contributing to the traffic and pollution around here; and the Steed uses the type of fuel that makes al-Qaeda's accountants rub their bloodstained hands together with glee. Wish I could put an electric or multifuel engine into it, but that's a notion that'll have to live on Fantasy Island awhile longer.

An Earnest Young Man

2006-08-11T17:28:00.000-04:00

I met another homeless person the other day in Wal-Mart. Ken's* personal downfall came as a result of drugs and a subsequent prison term. He is now out and clean, but his problem is one faced by many ex-offenders: one look at the fact that he's been to prison, and potential employers run in the opposite direction.

Still, he's trying to stay positive. He seems to have earnestly sworn off drugs, and is trying very hard to put his life back together with the help of his church and many friends. I tried to point him in the direction of programs that would help him find work, even as an ex-offender. One thing I did make sure to point out to him, however: while we were talking, he kept seeing people that he knew. I let him know that that was a sign right there; he's got a built-in network for help and information, he just needed to tap into it. He has a wife and child who are staying with friends; right now, he himself is staying with friends. He's tried the homeless shelter route, but -- like many others -- have found the rules to be...flexible, depending on who's asked to follow them.

The one worry he admitted to having what not knowing what to do if he couldn't find work soon. I told him to keep at it and to start asking organizations or employers that turn him down to point him in the direction of others that could help. Ken remindes me of Tim, the man I met under the bridge. They both have in common a will to keep going even when the deck is quite stacked against them. Of course, that can be the greatest weapon against their circumstances that they've got.

------------------------
*He gave me his full name, but I told him I'd only be using his first name, since this'll be on the Web.

Mobilis in Mobili

2006-08-11T17:19:00.000-04:00

I now have my Trusty Steed back. Callou! Callay!

To be sure, there are still a few things that have to be worked on (for one thing, the mechanics didn't change out the plugs and wires like I asked. See if I ever go back there again...) but at least we're mobile. The daily games of hurry-up-and-wait are over. And I no longer have to suffer 1) taxi drivers who think they know better than me where I live, despite the fact they weren't born in this country; 2) nutcases who get on the bus and either ramble on about nothing and everything despite my being obviously buried in a newspaper, or muttering dangerously to themselves while asserting that they're being stalked; and 3) young punks with more hormones than intelligence who only really ride the bus to see how dispruptive they can be, knowing that no one will seriously challenge them.

Yes, all these have happened.

But no more. Now, if I can just remember where I saw that bookshelf being thrown out...

Attack of the Little Darlings

2006-08-08T18:28:00.000-04:00

Despite my appalling ineptitude at retail, I have to admit, working in it is a golden opportunity to observe human behavior. It's like going out with a crew from Wild Kingdom; you watch certain behavior for awhile, and you come to expect those behaviors in a goodly sample of the shopping population.

Wonder what Jane Goodall would think?

Sometimes it's actually kind of fun watching the older ladies come in and stroll around, gabbing with their friends, then almost in unison stop, regard something on the shelf and intone "Oh, that's pretty!"

Or watching some suburban wife go through the store on a decorating/spending tear, while her husband (who apparently is the one actually footing the bill for the trip), trails behind her with his hands jammed into his pockets and a sheepish look on his face. Yeah, buddy; I see you [cue whiplash sound].

But there is one behavior I'll never understand. Worse, it sets my teeth on edge every time I see it. It usually involves a mother, one or more kids, and the mom's friend(s). While the women shop, at least one of the kids -- usually the youngest -- will start crying or screaming or perpetrating some action that should fall somewhere east of What Mom Considers Proper Behavior. But do the women in charge stop to take care of the situation? Nooooo! They tra-la-la along, completely tuning out the child in question, who might actually be in some sort of trouble, or disobeying rules.

Excuse me, but since when does a shower curtain pattern take precedence over taking care of your kid? If you're just going to ignore him, why did you bother going through all that morning sickness and labor pain to have him in the first place?

Understand, I'm not talking about a situation where Mom is dealing with something equally urgent or important (like another of the kids), so the squeaky wheel has to wait his turn for the grease. I'm talking about situations where Mom is so absorbed in that blouse that the kid's needs have fallen completely off the radar.

And it's even worse when the kids are willingly acting like complete savages and tearing through the store as though it were their own personal playground and making enough noise to hear them on the opposite side of the place, but golly-gee, aren't these throw rugs just too darling?

It. Drives. Me. Crazy.

And yes, I do have room to talk. From an early age, Ness has been taught that there is acceptable public behavior, and there is unacceptable public behavior. The latter always draws a swift and harsh response from Daddy. Therefore, she conducts herself properly in public, and even looks sideways at kids that don't.

Just as my mother and mother-in-law did for us. And their mothers did for them. I still remember as a kid the rare occasions when I would act up in a store. My grandmother (God rest that dear woman's soul) was a large woman, but as I discovered the hard way, she could move like lightning, using a switch the same way Toshiro Mifune used a samurai sword. I quickly learned that there were things I wasn't allowed to do in public.

But kids today* don't seem to have been taught those lessons. they go racing through the store, or screaming, or having tantrums, and generally acting like little barbarians while Mom (and surprisingly, sometimes Dad) tra-la-la's through a wonderland of savings. And there's nothing I can do except smile vacantly and fight down the urge to show the little hellions another use for all those belts on that rack over there.

Then again, what good would that do? It's not entirely their fault. I blame the parents. Mom and Dad should be teaching the kids the difference between right and wrong public behavior. But they're not. And that's a damnably sad commentary on our modern society**.

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*God, I sound like some old curmudgeon in a rocking chair, don't I? I also catch myself increasingly going, "I can remember when..."

**Oh, there I go again...

Agendas

2006-08-08T17:59:00.001-04:00

I think one of the worst thingsd about being poor is the loss of independence. When you have little means of your own, you're always depending on somebody else to help you through your own existence. Sometimes, those somebody elses let you down utterly. And at other times, they have agendas, experiences and levels of intelligence that are at loggerheads with yours.

For example, being still bereft of vehicle, I'm dependent on the buses and taxis around here to get most places. But the buses only travel specific routes at specific times. If I have business somewhere the bus doesn't travel, or at a time the bus doesn't travel, I have to make a choice of either not going to that place or doing a lot of walking. While it may seem that I have a choice (walking or not going at all), that choice is still being driven by GTA's agenda.

It's even worse with the taxis. Good luck getting one in Greensboro on a weekend night, or when it's raining. And for some reason I've yet to fathom, most of the taxi drivers are from Parts Unknown, and speak very broken English. We won't get into the cost; that's a rant for another time.

But even though there is more choice of destination with a taxi (within financial reason), there again you're riding on someone else's agenda. The taxi drivers around here are all about picking you up-getting you where you want to go-dropping you off-getting the money-going to the next pickup. All at the utmost speed they can muster without flipping the car over. Sometimes, they don't let little things like directions get in the way of that agenda.

Take, for instance, the...interesting ride I had last night. After doing some grocery shopping at Wally World, I called a cab to take me home (it's not too far a distance if I'm empty-handed or traveling lightly, but I had a big load to carry and the bus comes no closer than a mile and a half away.) One showed up inside of fifteen minutes. Good. I told him the address to go to and he actually understood. Good. Then, remembering that I only had a twenty dollar bill in my wallet*, I asked him if he could break it. The replay was no. Not Good. Okay, so we had to pull up at the nearest convenience store so I could dash in and buy something cheap enough to allow me to break the twenty while not dipping into my cab fare. Meanwhile, the driver was more than happy to wait, to the tune of .40 a minute, or something like that.

Anyway, with a two-liter bottle of Coke in hand, I soon got back in the cab and we took off. We hadn't gone more than three seconds away from the convenience store when the driver asked me, in some indeterminate accent if I was going to the north part of the road, or the south part. I told him north, whereupon he immediately proceeded to head for the south part. I told him north again, and he insisted, in that indeterminate accent, that we were on the north part.
(Sigh.) This guy drives a cab, and he doesn't know north from south. Son of a... Anyway, too tired to argue, I told him to simply turn onto the road and follow it till it ends (where my apartment is).

Of course, he immediately proceeds to drive past the proper turn. When I protested, he tried to make a U-turn to get back onto the proper road. Making a U-turn on this particular road is just plain suicide, day or night. Fighting the urge to smack him in the back of the head, I told him not to bother, just proceed up the road we were on until I told him to turn. Then I made a mental calculation as to how much extra this lackwit was costing me. Hmm, nearly ten bucks for a seven-buck cab ride. Worth getting him in trouble with his boss over? Maybe, but I'll decide tomorrow. I'm too tired now.

When he reached the proper intersection, I had him turn left, fully expecting him to turn right, but at least he was able to follow simple directions. In this manner, I reached the apartment in a few minutes. He told me only to give him eight dollars since he missed his turn. I was going to point out that cab rides from Wal-Mart to my apartment were usually only seven dollars, but why stick a needle in the bubble of his I'm-a-good-driver-delusion.

Besides, I was way too tired to argue. I'll get the buck back on payday. Don't spend it all in one place, bud.

------------------------------
*I'd very much like for somebody to explain why ATMs and cash-with-purchase functions do everything in increments of $20. I've seen many a time in my life where I only had $10, or even $19.95 in my checking account and therefore couldn't touch any of it. Very frustrating...

Alive!

2006-08-07T17:49:00.000-04:00

Well, I actually survived a big double whammy: the store held a night owl/early bird sale (one of our most popular ones) on the same weekend as North Carolina's Tax-Free Weekend.

It was a helluva week. 32 hours, and I took on what amounted to an extra shift. And I found out the hard way how many people are in the Triad because I swear most of them were in that store at one point or another.

However, to anyone reading this and looking for work: if you're the type that hates to leave work undone (like me), don't go into retail. the work is never finished, and you'll simply end up tearing your hair out in frustration.

The Lazy, Hazy, Crazy Days of Summer

2006-08-03T16:29:00.000-04:00

Summer began on June 21, but SUMMER began this week. I'm not talking barbeques, lounging out by the pool and catching fireflies in the evening. I'm talking heat, heat and more heat. Days so hot fire hydrants chase dogs. So hot if you spit, it evaporates before hitting the sidewalk. So hot you drink a bucket of hot coals to cool off.

I'm talking crazy heat.

And guess who's had to be out in it?

I've had a full work schedule this week: over 30 hours. And even though I've been going in in the early morning, it's still about 80 degrees* on the way to the bus stop. Monday and Wednesday were okay; I timed it so that I basically got to the stop the same time the bus did, to minimize my exposure. But Tuesday, I was treated to the sight of the bus peeling away from the stop down the road as I got to the intersection.

Okay, in order to get to work on time, there's nothing for it but to walk. Slowing to a stroll to keep from sweating and soaking my work shirt, I started on the last 2 miles to the store.

Now understand, I overheat very easily. And sweat in prodigious amounts. And I can't stop until I've been sitting under an airflow for awhile. So suffice it to say that before I'd even gotten halfway to work, I looked like I'd just been pulled out of a lake. Found out later that in the hour it took me to get there, the temperature had gone from 80 degrees to 500 degrees.

Okay, I'm exaggerating. But it sure felt like that.

And you know somewhere in this city, some guys had to have been pouring tar and rueing it.

The silver lining here was that I got to work a bit early, so I tried frantically to cool off and stop sweating enough to not drive any customers out the door. No one fled from me during the day, so I guess I was somewhat successful.

According to the Weather Channel's site, it's only been in the mid-90's each day. Sure hasn't felt like it.

I ain't complaining, though. This time last year, we were sweltering in our old place and praying either for rain or air conditioning, whichever came first. At least our apartment has central air. Please, God, don't let that A/C unit fail.

Can't help but think about Tim and the other homeless souls out there in this heat. I'm sure most of them have enough awareness to find a way to get out of the heat, and I see that some rain is on the way, but I hope the authorities are watching something other than their own navels and are prepared to help, just in case.

----------------------------
*About 27 degrees C, for our international friends. Sounds a lot colder than it actually is, neh?

The Fear of Becoming

2006-08-03T16:09:00.000-04:00

Just had an excellent confab with cara michele, where we held forth on a variety of topics. She's one of the most compassionate people I've ever met, and has got to be one of the smartest people in the Triad. Why we don't have her and others like her in public office, I don't know; seems we'd be all the better for it.

She also gave me quite a bit of food for thought. We discussed how homeless people (and to a slightly lesser extent, poor people) are perceived, usually with some degree of revulsion. Such perceptions seem to come from a sense that the homeless' lowly state has somehow knocked them right off the scale of humanity; as a result, they are often shunned, ignored, sneered at, snarled at, and otherwise treated (dare I say it) as something subhuman.

And I'm no angel in that regard. Remember, before becoming homeless myself earlier this year, I avoided obviously-homeless people, too. I refused to give change to panhandlers, and shook my head at the sign-carriers on the curb. Yes, I had a hard lesson to learn, too. And despite the harshness of the lesson, it needed to be learned.

But wherefore the basic perception of subhumanity? Why do so many of us shudder when we see someone who is obviously bereft of home?

Perhaps it's not a perception born of hatred or loathing. Maybe it's from a limbic sense that if we become involved in the problem, we too will suffer from the problem. Just like some people will refuse to visit a hospital for fear of becoming sick, or not going near a cemetery or funeral parlor so as not to think about our own mortality. Or befriending/helping the homeless lest we also become homeless. We don't want to face what could happen to us.

We have a fear of becoming.

Sounds superstitious. Maybe on some level it is, but if like me you believe in "what goes around, comes around," and "if you look into the abyss, the abyss also looks into you," you can wrap your brain around this concept, too.

However, the fear of becoming need not hold terror for us. After all, how do you fix the problem if you don't face it? At some point, you've got to stand at the boss's desk and tell her that important report got deleted from the drive. You've got to tell the teacher the dog ate your homework. You've got to face the fact that there are poor and homeless in town that could use the help.

At some point, you've got to face the problem, without worrying about becoming. Who knows, maybe it some cases becoming isn't such a bad thing.

Another One Rides the Bus

2006-07-31T18:29:00.000-04:00

After that last business, how about something positive to report, hm?

Well, it's not much, but I did do something that would benefit someone else. After almost being run down (again) trying to get to the bus last week, I decided enough was enough. I checked out GTA's website and found out that requesting a new bus stop was just a matter of writing the Planning Section saying why a new stop was needed and where. My reasoning was simply that people walking from our community or the neighboring one* were forced to cross a major thoroughfare in order to get to the bus stop, which can be dangerous when they're intent on making the bus and consequently misjudging traffic flow. I asked that a stop be included on the same side of the street as the communities, in between two existing stops, which are currently at least a mile apart.

According to the website, it'll take thirty days to review and review/deny a new stop. I just hope someone (especially one of us) doesn't become a traffic statistic before then.

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*A privately-run apartment community abuts ours, and shares part of the same access road. People living in the eastern half of that community have a bus stop they can get to, but people from the western half have to make the same mad dash that we have to through the traffic.

It's SNAFU Time

2006-07-31T18:16:00.000-04:00

I've lived long enough and grown up enough to admit when I'm wrong. To wit:

In my last post, I railed about the apparent shabby treatment a homeless man in Winston received while a film crew was shooting in another part of the building. I've since found out that what was reported in the paper was only half (maybe less) of the story (see sara's comments from the last post to find out the details.) I've stuck my foot in my mouth up to my kneecap, and I apologize to the film crew and the others on the scene at the time.

Sara nailed me good. I committed the very sin of which I jump on others for: passing judgement. Seems even after all the crap I went through I still have a lot to learn. Hard lessons, too.

If I have a defense here at all, it is that too many times this sort of thing happens to homeless/poor people where the entire story is known, but no one speaks up, rationally or otherwise. I've been witness to some of those times, and to this day, I kick myself for not saying anything when something needed to be said. I guess the lesson I've learned here is to dig a little more into such things and think a little more before speaking, neh?

And thanks to all you guys for keeping me honest.

Thy Brother's Keeper

2006-07-27T19:05:00.000-04:00

I was going to post about how foolish the city of Orlando (east coast home of The Mouse) is acting towards its homeless population, and about the homeless count they did here in Guilford County, but Cara, who's far more hip to these things than I am, has beaten me to it. You can get the salient details on her blog. My two cents? While Orlando has the right to regulate its parks, howabout then telling the homeless where they can get food? Or better yet, help them get somewhere to live.

One thing I can post, though (although this will probably fall under the heading of There He Goes Again) is a little something I read about in this week's GoTriad, a supplement to the News & Record that covers entertainment news here in the Triad. The main story was about an annual contest where independent filmmakers have only 48 hours to produce a movie from scratch. One team, with a reported embedded, had a sort-of encounter with a homeless man in Winston-Salem. According to the article by Joe Scott:

[Sunday,] 2:23 a.m. A vagrant stumbles onto the location
while the crew frantically shoots in the basement. "Help me, please," the
homeless man says. "I've just had a seizure." This incident must have no impact
on the work taking place downstairs, and Matson knows that. While I call the
paramedics, Matson escorts the man outside, locking the door behind her. Shortly
afterward, a firetruck arrives, taking the homeless man away. Everyone hopes for
the best but has to move on. "All right," Matson says, pointing to the front
entrance, "this door stays locked from now on." -- "Under the Gun" GoTriad, 7/26/06

Bold text above is mine.

Okay, let's get this straight: a man comes in to a movie set seeking help from a bunch of strangers because he's fallen ill, and what happens? He gets the help, but it's clearly secondary to finishing a damn movie?! And it's made worse because the man is homeless -- excuse me, "a vagrant", to use reporter Scott's vernacular. So what if he was homeless? He was sick and needed help. And he gathered up enough moxie to ask two strangers for that help. But although he got the help, it seems he was treated as no more than an annoyance to be dealt with, not someone who wanted to be helped with at least a minimum of dignity.

I wonder if he knew he was second best to a shooting script. I wonder if he saw the two he asked for help roll their eyes heavenward as though to say "what now?" I wonder if he heard the exasperated tone of Scott's voice as he called for paramedics as the other person hustled him out the door. I wonder how he reacted to the door being locked the instant he was out of the building. I wonder what conclusions he drew from the frustrated fidgeting and clock watching of the woman as she waited with him for the paramedics. I wonder if he caught the look of "thank God that's over" as he was being wheeled into the firetruck. And I wonder if he thought he was going to die because getting a movie done on time was more important than making sure a fellow human being -- homeless or not -- would live to see another day and maybe, just maybe get another shot at bettering his lot.

And frankly, I wonder if he would've been treated that way if he weren't homeless.

According to the article, these Hollywood wannabes made a spy flick. If they want to impress people, maybe they should spend some time and celluloid documenting the homeless around here. Maybe then they'll see that some things are just a tad more important than film speeds and directorial visions.

No, these people weren't, to use the Biblical phrase, their brother's keeper, but it seems to me that even Abel had the benefit of not knowing just how much Cain resented him before being killed. This poor guy in Winston probably caught a full measure of that.

And all for a movie.

In the Heat. Again. Dammit.

2006-07-26T10:16:00.000-04:00

Long post today. Strap in, it's gonna be a bumpy ride...

Got a letter from the Employment Security Commission of the Great And Powerful State Of North Cakalak the other day:

Dear Mr. Brown
The Employment Security Commission (ESC) of North Carolina
is reponsible for working with people who are receiving food stamp benefits and
are required to look for work.

The Department of Social Services has asked us to contact
you regarding your participation in the Food Stamp Employment & Training
(FSE&T) Program. We may be able to assist you in finding a job or enrolling
you in school or training to better prepare you for a job. Some assistance is
available for travel and childcare expenses. First, you must meet with us so we
can determine how best to assist you.

Please report to: (here was appointment information,
including the ESC office address, the time/date, which was today, and the person
I was to ask for.) If this is not a convenient time, please call to
reschedule.

If you do not keep this appointment, you MUST call
the Food Stamp Consultant by 4:00 PM on or before your scheduled appointment at
the above number toestablish a good cause for missing your appointment. If good
cause is established, you will be rescheduled and must keep that appointment. If
you do not keep that appointment, DSS will be notified which will result in the
loss of your food stamp benefits. This will be your only
letter.

We look forward to working with you to find suitable
employment.

I've kept the formatting exactly as they sent it. Mama got a copy of this letter as well. Boiled down to its base, it stated that we showed up to the ESC, or we starved to death.

Okay, nothing for it but to go. But what exactly did these jackasses think I've been doing for the past three years. Plus, I've already got a job. It pays nearly nothing, but according to the Great And Powerful State Of North Cakalak, I'm fully employed. So why did I need to report to the friggin' ESC?

A potential problem reared its ugly head almost immediately; I was down to my last $2.00. Ordinarily, I wouldn't have left the house, being my day off, until payday Thursday, when I could tap my account (which was already in the hole) for bus money. But we had to show up Wednesday. Okay, we'll just go to this idiocy and hope we can find some solution once that was out of the way.

Anyway, this morning Mama and I got up and headed for the bus stop. In the heat. The hilarity ensued almost immediately. We passed something dead at the side of the road that was now decomposed past the point of recognition. Mama, being of a more squeamish nature, ran (yes, ran) past it. I was still trying to identify the thing, and therefore wasn't looking up. I thought the bus was coming early (we still had maybe ten minutes to get to the stop) and bolted, untitl I realized that Mama was merely being squeamish.

We reacehd the intersection, and traffic for some reason was more insane than usual. We waited a good. five minutes for the racetrack to die down. As we did, I looked east to check the traffic from that direction and to my horror saw the bus coming. Five minutes early! In order to reach the bus stop, we still had to cross the racetrack and sprint a quarter-mile down the road. The bus would be there in way less time than that.

Taking a step out onto the road, I considered bolting across as best I could, then remembered Mama wasn't as strong a sprinter as me. nothing for it but to wait. We watched the traffic come on and on, looking angrily and impatiently as the bus closed the gap between its current position and where it had to make the turn. Once it made that turn, if we weren't across the street and clearly sprinting for the stop, the driver would assume we were just out for a stroll and keep going. We'd miss our bus and therefore our appointment and therefore our food.

At a break in the traffic, we started out at a dead run. The bus swing through the turn and started to head down the street. There was one slim hope: a major manufacturer has a plant at the corner; sometimes the bus stops there to let workers off...but no. It kept going. So here were two out of shapr fortysomethings running like crazy down the road in hot pursuit of a bus in what had to be 85% humidity. Fortunately, the driver had seen us and waited, but the whole episode only steeled my resolve to get my car back. Somehow.

As least my back felt much better. Had this occurred yesterday, running would have been out of the question. As it was, my lower back muscles gave me a small reminder that I wasn't yet 100%.

We caught our breath and settled in for the trip downtown. About halfway there just as I had settled on the right impertinent question to ask the ESC staff (the letter said "suitable employment" -- who got to define "suitable", me or them?), there was suddenly a sharp BANG from the back of the bus and the smell of smoke quickly followed. The driver pulled over, disappeared around the back of the bus for about 15 seconds, then got back on board and immediately got on the radio. Not good. I couldn't hear what she reported, but after signing off, she informed everyone on the bus that a van would be picking us up in a few minutes so could we all wait outside.

In the heat again. Dammit. And time was running out.

Fortunately, the van was fairly prompt, but there were fourteen people to transport downtown, and several of them were as big as me. Somehow or other we all crammed inside. It was hot. It was humid, and for some reason the driver had the radio tuned to the local hip-hop* station. In the morning. too early for that crap. I called up my internal soundtrack while envying the young man with the iPod two seats up. Along the way, the driver stopped to let four people at three stops that the bus had broken down and he would have to return for them. I felt sorry for those people. That got that look on their faces that I get whenever I think about how I used to get myself from place to place, seemingly a lifetime ago.

About the time I started sweating in earnest**, we reached the Depot. Mama and I headed for our connecting bus, which, thankfully, was still there. The trip to the ESC was thankfully uneventful, but when we got there, about 10 minutes before our appointment time, we found that the building wasn't even open yet!

Out in the heat. Again. Dammit.

And did I tell you that when you're standing waiting in high humidity, each minute seems like an hour?

Finally, the doors opened and everyone (about 20 people by that point) streamed inside. The session was to be a group thing, wherein supposedly the lady running it would explain what the heck was going on. We found out. As a condition of receiving food stamps, Mama and I have to make three job search contacts a week and report these contacts to ESC or lose our Food Stamps.

Again, what did these jackasses think I've been doing for the past three years?

We had to fill out some forms describing what sort of jobs we were looking for (I put down Graphic Design just to shut them the hell up, even though I've lost all hope in getting another job in the field and was considering training as a lab tech.) and set up return appointments with the ESC staffer in a month's time. For successfully completing a month's work search, we'd get a check from the county for a cool 25 bucks.

Oooh, 25 whole bucks. Now I can buy that Lexus I've had my eye on.

And the lady says that when we return, we'll only be here 5 or 10 minutes.

Sigh. So now Mama and I have to run across town. In the heat. Again. Dammit. To show ESC that yes we're fulfilling the directives of The Great And Powerful State Of North Cakalak and looking for work. Like we were already doing. To spend five minutes doing it. For a whole 25 bucks.

Can you say inconvenience? I thought ya could.

Okay, enough ranting. How about a little common sense here? Okay, we're poor. Yes we're on public assistance. But how about assuming that we're also adults capable of handling our own affairs. To be sure, my job search was going slowly, but it was going in a way guaranteed to get me a job or get myself into training for a new career. Now, because of one damn fool, overpaid social worker, I've got to move according to someone else's agenda and bring back a lot of the anxiety and uncertainty of getting a job that will pay the bills****. In other words, instead of expending time and energy on trying to get a good, lucrative job I can enjoy and possibly retire from, I've gotta take the first friggin' burger-flipping job some mook wants to slide in front of me.

And the day ain't over yet. It's not even halfway through. Still got to get through the afternoon. Fortunately, I was able to tap my account via a nearby ATM and get money for the bus. To the tune of another $32 NSF charge. There goes my pay for the week; by the time it fills in the void that is my checking account, I won’t have enough to catch the next bill coming in. In fact, I’m sure I’ll still owe more.

In the heat. Again.

Dammit.

------------------------
*I think I've related to you before about the barbarous cacophony masquerading as music and calling itself hip-hop, so I won't go back into it here.

**For some reason that doesn't seem to be genetic, I sweat very easily and profusely, and cannot stop until I get under a steady airflow. For this reason, I try very hard to limit a lot of outdoor exertion if I know I'll be away from home for longer than a few minutes. But then of course, I have to run for buses and such.

***Didn't seem to matter that I had already told my idiot social worker that I already had a job. Remember I said I how I hate social workers?

****Of course, I (and I assume, anyone else possessed of at least a minimum of wit) cannot consider jobs that don't pay the bills. Most "service" jobs fall into this category. And another retail job is absolutely, positively out of the question, even if it means starving.

For Want of a Heating Pad

2006-07-24T18:26:00.000-04:00

Two events occurred last week of significance (three, if you count the big storms that blew through the other night, but I digress...) One is that I went to the storage unit again (I know, big whoop; but it ties into the post later). I collected some items that we deemed useful, but non-critical: my venerable old Mac, with its Zip drive and monitor; a few of Ness' toys, a few of Mike's items that he thought missing, and a few odds and ends Mama called out the door for me to bring back as I left. Oh, and some dishes we needed (still p.o.'ed that I can't find the lid to the stock pot, however.)

Before I left the unit, I made one final check to make sure I wasn't leaving anything behind that I'd need later. Books? Nope. Cassette tapes (God, am I still using those? Why?) Nope. More toys for Ness? Nope. Mike's swords*? Hell, no! The electric fans? Mm, well, maybe the tabletop. My old heating pad? Well, I have thrown my back out at least once since losing the house, but...nah, I think I can do without it.

Once I got everything bungeed onto my folding cart properly, I headed for home via the two bus transfers and the mile-and-a-half walk the journey would require.

Flash forward to the other significant event of the past week. Yep, threw my back out. Friday. Had to carry a bin full of laundry upstairs. In order to keep from tripping over my own big feet and bouncing back downstairs, I held the bin out from my body so I could see the steps.

Bad move. Really stupid move. And my lower back muscles wasted no time in letting me know just how stupid a move it was. I was laid up all day Saturday and Sunday. I had to call in sick to work, making an intolerable financial situation even more so. And although I don't mind spending a weekend lying in bed reading a stack of books, it's rather hard to do when every move you make brings a new wave of pain and the kids decide "Daddy's hurt; let's act like total savages now!" And it really doesn't help when the Beast sitting in my psyche chortling and going, "Nyah, nyah! See? You could've brought your heating pad, but NOOOOO!"

Even now, I have to sit a certain way in the chair so I can use the computer without looking like an escaped hospital patient. And you should see me hobbling down the street like a crippled caveman trying to look cool and in control when my back is screaming otherwise.

Got to go in to work tomorrow. I might be able to do so...if there's some Tylenol left in the medicine cabinet.

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*In a lapse of mentality that perplexes me to this day, a couple years ago, my ex-wife gave Mike a set of shortwords for his birthday. I have no problem with this, as he is quite willing to aid in the defense of the home if necessary, but I made sure to admonish him that his sister was not to come anywhere near those things, and that he was only to have them out of the sheath in an emergency or if he were training with them. Of course, they've been in storage up till now, so the point is kinda moot.

Roughing It

2006-07-24T18:17:00.001-04:00

Got an email from lisa6489 with an excellent suggestion. I promised to pass it along. In her own words:

"I had an idea to pass along to you. I realize it's not an
idea that would work in every situation, but it's an idea just the same. The
best one I ever came up with to help myself out of a bad spot. When I found
myself homeless, I sold everything I had. Every stick of furniture. Every
appliance. Everything I could live without. I only came up with $600, but it was
enough for me to buy a camper. All of the furniture and appliances were built
in, so I didn't have to worry about the things I sold. I gave the man I bought
it from an extra $25 to deliver it to a campground for me and help me set it up.
Campgrounds don't do credit checks and they don't normally ask for any kind
of deposit. The water, electric, and trash pick-up is usually all included in
your rent which can run anywhere up to the $350 range. Still very cheap for a
month of bills. If you don't have enough to rent your space for a month, you can
always pay for a day or a week or whatever you can afford to buy you some time
to earn more money. For me, this was a life saver. Even after I was working and
had enough money to move into a house, I still stayed in the camper for many
more months so that I could get the benefit of the very low monthly bills and
being able to put more money in the bank. I will never be without a camper
again. I feel very secure knowing I have it and that I will never be homeless
again. Even if I had to put it in a friend's yard for awhile, I would have a
place to live.

For anyone who doesn't really know about campers,
they have built in beds, dressers, and a sofa at the very least. They don't all
have an air conditioner. They have a propane heater and stove, a refrigerator
that can run on propane and/or electric, a hot water heater, a fully functional
bathroom with at least a shower and most of them have clever hidden beds. The
kitchen table usually drops down to convert into a bed, the sofa pulls out, and
sometimes what looks like an overhead cabinet actually folds down into a
bunk. You can fit a smal

I'm Goin' to...Wally World!

2006-07-17T18:00:00.000-04:00

Sometimes people coming into the store ask for items that we either don't carry or are currently out of. When that happens, I apologize that they couldn't find their item and I try to suggest places where they might find it, if they're not willing to wait until we stock it again. If it's a common item, I'll sometimes recommend that they try the nearby Wal-Mart.

You should see some of the reactions I get. Some people react to a suggestion to try Wal-Mart with undisguised disgust. Or look at me with a look of trying to gauge when I escaped the mental ward. Or they chuckle wryly with a tone of "Yeah, when donkeys fly!"

I understand the loathing some people have for Wal-Mart, but I honestly can't say I share that loathing. As far as shopping goes, Wal-Mart fills my bill.

To be sure, Wally World* is nothing like it started out as, and if Sam Walton could come back and see what it's become, he'd probably be mad as hell. And sites like Wake Up Wal-Mart probably keep them more honest than the Wally World board of directors are willing to admit, but most of the things I buy on a regular basis I find cheaper at Wal-Mart than anywhere else. And every penny saved helps.

But I admit it, I'm a shopping whore. I'll buy from whoever's got the cheapest price. If somebody actually beats out Wal-Mart's price on something, I'm there. Especially if it's K-Mart.

Similarly, I'm not too proud to be seen shopping at a thrift store or a flea market. Hey, whoever's got it cheap, that's where I am.

-------------------------
*C'mon, you've heard people call it that, and probably do it yourself on a regular basis. Don't be coy...

Salvage Rights

2006-07-17T17:36:00.000-04:00

Been awhile since my last post. (sigh!) I think I should just resign myself to posting when I can until my transportation situation improves.

Speaking of which...

Yet another little annoyance of riding the bus is that I'm constantly spotting perfectly good items that others no longer have a use for, and have dragged to the curb for trash pickup. But the corollary to this is Murphy's Law, which dictates that I'll only see these items when I'm on my way to work or some other place on a schedule, and can't immediately get off the bus and snag the item in question. And I've had to pass up such items as portable TVs*, boom boxes*, computer monitors, computers*, folding chairs, and other items that make life a little easier. A recent frustration is spotting a CD storage rack (which I badly needed at the time) in front of a house whose occupants were moving out. But I had an appointment to keep, and couldn't get the rack right away. to be sure, I made a beeline back to that house as soon as I left my appointment, but by then , someone else had salvaged the rack. C'est la guerre. It worked out, though, because a couple weeks later, I snagged an even better one at Goodwill for 3 bucks.

Still, you can't beat a price of "free for the taking".

Two weeks ago I had the good fortune to come across a perfectly good bedframe that someone in an apartment complex decided they didn't want any more. I was in that area's laundromat (and consequently loaded down with several large bags of laundry) when I spotted the thing across the street from the bus stop. I grabbed it up immediately** without even considering how I was going to get the thing home with the load I already had to carry. I managed somehow, but my fingers and shoulders were sore the next day. And Mama and I have an excellent bedfram that was just the right size for our mattress.

Just this morning, while on my way to work, I looked down at the ground while the bus was stopped at a red light and saw a really nice ballpoint pen lying on the ground. I don't know if the previous owner had tossed it away or it had fallen out of a passing car, but I plan to look for it later on the way home. Hopefully no one else has gotten to it yet.

----------------------
*I've discovered through the years that these itmes, more often than not, are actually still in good condition, they just need very minor repair, or have a short in the power cord, or some other niggling problem.

**One thing that goes away when you're poor is pride. You might believe you're above going through someone else's trash, but if that prise is the only thing standing between you and not having to pay for something...

Project: Projects

2006-07-10T18:27:00.000-04:00

Read this article yesterday in the News & Record. It's about one of the public housing projects here in town, Hampton Homes, and how in 2005 it was deemed the most dangerous of the projects here. This fact took me completely by surprise, as I personally have deemed two other local projects, Smith Homes and Claremont Courts, to be far more dangerous. But until this year, I hadn't frequented any projects, so my information is of necessity lacking.

The prevaling social image of The Projects seems to fall within two types: the funny-but-warm social nursery that served as the backdrop of such TV fare as Good Times, and the crime-ridden, drug-soaked, trash-strewn holes sometimes seen on the news as the backdrop to yet more gang violence. Sadly, the latter view is closer to reality for some Projects, including some in North Carolina. However, I can tell you that not all of them are like that. Many Projects, while not squeaky-clean, picket-fenced utopias, are decent places that allow their inhabitants to arrest the socioeconomic death spiral they've found themselves in and hopefully begin the long climb upward.

Basically, it's all in the quality of the inhabitants. Most Project dwellers are decent and hard-working, willing to live and let live and try to teach their children the qualities that will keep them from having to live on the public dole. In some, however, there are those that exist only to steal, kill, rape, vandalize and produce yet another generation of subhumans all too willing to carry on such a disgusting legacy. These are what give most Projects their bad repuations.

As to our Project, we seem to have been very fortunate. Ours is a relatively quiet community. I think part of the reason is that it's off the beaten path. The presence of a police substation less than a mile away is also probably part of the equation. Any crap that goes down can be met by the GPD before the echo dies away. But so far the only untoward things we've dealt with are goose droppings, and one guy a few units up who blasts his music, but only in the daytime. It's so safe so far that I have no qualms about letting Mike or Mama walk to the bus unescorted.

But I still keep a sharp eye out for anything amiss. And Ness never leaves the house without one of us nearby, ever. Probably a good idea for any area of the city in this day and age.

To the decent, hardworking souls in Hampton Homes, Smith Homes, Claremont Courts, and Ray Warren: I know it seems sometimes like you're surrounded by barbarians. But keep your chin up; you've got a weapon the drug-soaked hip-hoppers don't: potential. You'll be gone from The Projects long before that sort even know what they've trapped themselves and their children into.

C'est La Vie

2006-07-05T19:51:00.000-04:00

Things have been dull this week, more or less. That's not necessarily a bad thing; I can't handle as much excitement as I could back in my younger, more dynamic days. It's just that the routines seem more tedious than normal.

The heat and the corresponding ozone problems have kept us from getting out of the house much. Mike and Ness don't seem fazed at all, but Mama and I are getting a touch of cabin fever. I'm hoping I can get my Trusty Steed out of the shop before summer's gone, and maybe hit Durham and check on my mom and aunt. My aunt (who's younger than my mom) has developed a medical condition that's thrown my mom into the awkward role of caregiver. I give her what support I can, but I'm immersed in my own socioeconomic quagmire.

July 4th was quiet. Ordinarily, we'd have attended Fun Fourth, Greensboro's Independence Day street festival, but again, the heat and ozone kept us inside (I went to the convenience store to pick up some soda and ice. Walking out the front door was like walking into a blast furnace, and I was suffering asthma symptoms before I'd gotten out of sight of the apartment.) No fireworks for us either, since they're held in another part of town as Fun Fourth, and we would not have been able to catch the bus home (they stopped running earlier than normal since they were on a holiday schedule). It's just as well; Mother Nature decided to join the fun and roll a few severe thunderstorms over us around showtime anyway.

I promised a reader I'd help put the word out for her: Married3x@aol.com wrote me in an e-mail that her sister has become homeless and Married hasn't been able to contact her. I gave her a few options to try and promised to spread the word here. She thinks that her sister is in the vicinity of one of the city's Wal-Marts. Any reader in the Greensboro area with some information please pass it along to Married, eh?

Also, cyberdog1968 has made an excellent point: there are too many of us poor who think that it's cool to simply lay back and let the rest of society take care of them. All they do is give the rest of the poor a bad image by (what?) perpetuating a stereotype. There are many poor who struggle every day with jobs, health and child care, yet the image many in society see is the lazy, shiftless person who could work, but won't, and who uses the welfare system as a first course of action, not a last resort safety net. Sadly, I've run into too many of these people myself. But I take comfort in the fact that they're more rare than many political pundits would have you believe.

I try not to be lazy, but I have my days... Still, even though I take some welfare myself (food stamps and Medicaid, primarily for the kids) I'd rather pay my own way, so that I won't have to keep proving I'm poor to various and sundry social workers. On that note, some developments are occurring that I don;t want to say too much about for fear of jinxing things. Stay tuned.

Saturdays on the Home Front

2006-07-01T14:04:00.000-04:00

First, a couple acknowledgements:

Once again, I've let things move toward partisanism and flamewars. I've taken steps to keepm that from happening in the future. One is to keep focus on the local poverty scene. After all, I don't live in New York, Los Angeles, Miami or Hollywood. Thanks, avolo.

Meblogin makes some good points, and does so tastefully, without name-calling or labeling. He's right; in terms of raw contributions, rich people do pay a lot in the form of taxes and in-kind donations. But in my own defense, I was referring to the contributions and donations to charities and direct aid above and beyond the taxes (which are, after all, compulsory, and I think we'd all agree we wouldn't give the government a dime if we didn't have to). No, these things don't have to be given, but it's a bigger person that says: "Y'know, instead of buying that yacht, let's give some money to St. Jude Children's Hospital or the Salvation Army to give others a shot at what we have. Of course, those who are able to do both, hey, more power to 'em.

I had to log off fast from the library's computers last time, so fast that I didn't have time to come up with a title for the post. I've done so now.

And I actually have seen guys in convertible Jags; I just used one as an archetype while trying illustrate my points.

Speaking of guys in Jags, I did some thinking this morning while cleaning the kitchen* and my mind wasn't otherwise occupied. I recalled feeling a wave of resentment when I saw the guy in the Jag the other day. I asked myself why. Why did I feel resentment at the Jag driver? Had he harmed me or my family personally? No. Was I jealous? No. Was he a lawyer, and therefore worthy of my scorn**? Insufficient data. He could've just as easily been a doctor, an accountant or a university official. Was he driving recklessly, or otherwise endangering society? No.

Then why the heck was I so resentful? I asked myself, probably for the first real time in my life. After pondering it a bit, I realized that the reason I was so resentful was that this guy represented all the possibilities I had either missed, squandered or overlooked. He had what he wanted. I didn't. Not sufficient reason to resent someone I didn't even know, sure. But enough to make me think through the reason I resented him.

As a result, I realized I didn;t really resent the Jag guy at all; I resented myself for not being him, and resented myself for having a hardscrabble life. The first I can't do anything about, but the second? Well, there's still time (even though I'll be 44 in less than two weeks). I can still go to training, or luck into a job comperable to the one I had at Trone. Hell, who knows? I might even hit the Powerball.

A little later after rendering the kitchen floor sparkling clean*** I was folding laundry while watching Disney's The Proud Family on TV. I enjoy this show, although I don't often get to sit still and watch it. This time, however, I probably shouldn't have, as we shall see. The episode revolved around Penny's efforts to get elected school president. He opponent, Li'l Wiz, was the son of a huge NBA star turned town mayor, and therefore had his father's resources (including cash) to draw upon. Wizard (the father) jumped into the fray by releasing a commercial slamming Penny's dad. One of the lines in the commercial was "success breeds success; failure breeds...success for someone else."

God, how true, I thought to myself when I heard that line. But then it stuck. And it reminded me of all the failures I'd been through in my own life and how somebody else was probably capitalizing on them right now while I'm stuck here in...

Oh, crap! The Beast!

He had begun a psychic assault so subtle that I didn't know I was in it until he was almost done gleefully shredding every bit of my self-esteem. And I had grown complacent over the ensuing weeks of not having to fight him off. Rallying my thoughts, I quickly remembered where I was in relation to where I'd been just a couple short months ago while hitting him with some of the disco I'd been listening to recently. It was actually easier to fight him off this time, once I recognized what was going on, but I'd spiraled down into near-depression so fast I almost didn't recognize the danger in time.

Gotta watch that; time's too precious to waste fighting him off these days.

----------------------------
*We seem to do a lot of cleaning these days, even if most of our possessions are still in storage.

**I admit I don't like lawyers, but only because I've been at the business end of too many of them. But soft, there's enough angst there for a post unto itself.

***Try this for a general-purpose cleaner; I found the formula in a tenant handbook we were given, although there are probably plenty of ones like in around the web: 1/4 cup baking soda, 1 cup ammonia, 1/2 cup white vinegar, all in a gallon of warm water. This stuff cleans almost anything, and costs only pennies. Divide all the above amounts by four to use and store ina spray bottle.

Getting It (Or Not)

2006-06-29T18:30:00.000-04:00

Well, I actually wasn't going to post today, since nothing of any great import happened today*, but after reading the comments to my post about Bill Gates and Warren Buffett, I believe it's time to (again) defend my position.

First, a big hats off to heiderific. She also Gets It. In her own words:

… I have volunteered at homeless shelters. I do what I can
to make my piece of the world better. Are you? You may not have the time or
money to donate on a regular basis, but are you doing small things to make your
little corner of the world better? Those small things add up and do make a
difference… I wholeheartedly believe that more people should help the less
fortunate in their local area…I see great value in giving money to help people
in Africa who have to walk hours each day for water to drink that may be
contaminated. There are many people in the world who unfortunately aren't having
basic needs of food, clothing, and shelter being met…With the amount of wealth
that Gates and Buffet have I think a lot of the social problems could be
helped.

Maybe I should define "Getting It" (I had thought I wouldn't have to). When one "Gets It", s/he realizes that there are those in need of help that should be helped, and if they have the wherewithal, they provide the help. Yes, heiderific, there are those worse off than me. I would help them substantially if I could. Since I cannot do so financially or politically at this time, I can use the power of the Internet to make sure that somebody, somewhere, at least pays attention to them.

By this definition, Bill Gates and Warren Buffett Get It. Brad Pitt and your average NBA players don't Get It. Mother Teresa Got It in a huge way. 99% of the polilticians in Congress don't Get It, also in a huge way. Cara Michele Gets It. gtv doesn't Get It. Too many don't Get It.

Yes, I realize I could be worse off than I am; no, I'm not owed a damn thing; yes, I think that more people of means could be helping those of lesser means more; and no, I'm not going to shut up about the poor and homeless. Jesus said we will always have the poor with us; nowhere in the Bible does He say not to help them.

----------------------
*For those of you who must know, I get Ness dressed anticipating on taking her with me downtown today (she decided not to go), rode the bus downtown, spoke with the IRS about the rest of my tax refund I had coming (it wasn't), went to collect some discarded 3-ring binders I'd spotted from the bus yesterday (they'd already been picked up) and came to the library. Spine-tingling, huh?

Doing Unto the Least of These

2006-06-26T17:29:00.000-04:00

Warren Buffett Gets It.

Bill and Melinda Gates Get It.

Some other people around the country of wealth and means Get It.

Would that many other people around the country of wealth and means would Get It.

I'm talking, of course, about the announcement that Mr. Buffett made recently of his decision to dedicate most of his vast fortune to charity. To the tune of well over $30 billion (with a "b") bucks. As in, "I'm going to put this money to work helping society instead of simply buying (yawn!) another yacht."

Now, there's no guarantee that large amounts of this money will actually go to helping the plight of the American poor. Some quick research on the Bill & Melinda Gates Foundation (who'll get the lion's share of the Buffett endowment) website shows that over 50% of their grants go to addressing "global health issues" (meaning, diseases overseas). Still, for guys like Gates and Buffett, who are awash in cash, to even notice that there are people struggling out here with less than a fraction of the resources they have, is absolutely awesome.

In fact, in light of the rant I posted yesterday, maybe someone with more socioeconomic persuasiveness than I have can approach these guys about funding some of the local Individual Development Account programs around the country (yes, including Guilford County). What an investment that would make; the Gates Foundation funds IDAs, then program participants use the money accrued to open a business that helps others get ahead. Or secure higher education that allows them to teach the next generation of entrepreneurs and fund providers. That's the gift that keeps on giving.

Messrs. Gates and Buffett, if by some freak chance you're reading this, my hat's off to you both. You're rich guys who acknowledge that there are poor guys trying to become rich guys. You Get It.

The rest of you million/billionaires: It's past time you got off your lazy buttocks and got to work showing society that you do indeed have a sense of responsibility. And no, I'm not talking skinning the top back on your little Jag convertible so everybody can see you and be awed*. Or chasing a ball around a court and acting like you're entitled. Or having a kid as a fashion statement or a means to get your next movie role. Or "singing" about topics that shame your mother and then bragging about how many drugs you've dealt or times you've been shot. I'm talking about Doing Unto the Least Of These (see Matthew 25:40).

You better get moving; Bill and Warren are making y'all look awful bad.

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*Actually, whenever I see someone gliding down the street in his Jag with the top skinned back, my first thought is along the lines of: "I wonder how many poor kids had to starve to death so he could play with his little sports car?"

Within the Box

2006-06-24T16:58:00.000-04:00

In the last post, I mentioned feeling trapped by a lack of options. Here's a perfect example of what I'm talking about:

Last night, the CBS Evening News reported a great program tailor-made for helping the poor. The Individual Development Account lets low-income families build up savings by matching their deposits 3:1 with a mix of private and public funds. The money thus accrued can then be used to buy a house (which is what pricked my attention), start a business or fund higher education. Is that cool or what?

So I eagerly awaited word within the report of how to get in on this deal. Apparently each state runs its own version of the program and one has to contact that state's IDA people.

Okaaay...so, (knowing what was to come) I wrote a note to myself to check this out the next time I hit the library. Which I did today. I Googled for the info and found North Carolina's IDA page almost immediately.

So far, so good. But remember a few sentences ago when I mentioned I knew what was to come? Wait for it...

I discovered that only 55 counties in North Carolina participate in the IDA program. (North Carolina has 100 counties. A 55% participation rate in anything is piss-poor any day of the week, but wait for it...) This information was helpfully displayed as a map showing which counties participate by color-coding.

(Wait for it...)

I eagerly scanned the map to find Guilford's participation in the IDA program. I found it. The color was white, meaning...

(Here it comes...)

Guilford County, North Carolina does not participate in the Individual Development Account program.

Sadly, that didn't surprise me. And frankly, I saw it coming. In a county where the rich folk willingly, eagerly and gleefully segregate themselves from anything with even a whiff of poverty; where condos, not affordable housing is being built; where Letters to the Editor fly thicker than flocks of blackbirds to the local newspaper anytime anyone tries to raise the minimum wage or buy a lottery ticket; where more money is spent maintaining golf courses than low-iincome dwellings; where wages start out in the single digits (and even lower if Uncle Sam isn't looking); where cars are king and bicycles are to be mowed down like hay; where Riched Petty is better known than Alfred Nobel; where low-income schools are either broken up, bussed out, plowed under or underfunded; where developers have more say than citizens; where an extra penny in sales tax is tacked on any time the state even considers allowing it to; where everything stops for an International Furniture Market that was taken for granted until Las Vegas started its own; where homeless people sleep under bridges and families get foreclosed or evicted at rates higher than the rest of the state while housing funds come up for gutting; where the county Board of Commissioners is dominated by rednecks, race-baiters, know-nothings, and dunderheads of every friggin' stripe, there is no provision for helping the poor get ahead whatsoever!

And there should be! Dammit, this program is just what poor people need to get a leg up on their miserable existence and out of poverty!

Okay, alright, time to end the rant, because I feel the Beast waking up...

But the fact remains that like so many other places around the country, Guilford County's priorities are totally and completely snafu. Think of it; poor people able to save enough money to buy a house and become taxpayers capable of conducting their own independent lifestyles instead of having to beg the damned Department of Social Services for enough resources to squeak by. And getting the door slammed in their faces. Or opening their own businesses and crafting their own futures instead of kowtowing to some slime with more money than brains who takes orgasmic pleasure in playing the poor like pawns.

Hell, even poor counties like Pitt, Johnston and Haywood participate in some aspect of the IDA program. But not Guilford, which is like the second or third richest county in the state.

Maybe Guilford just doesn't give a damn about its poor people. Maybe it would just as soon see us all plowed under the spreading asphalt of the greedy developers. Maybe it pines for the long-ago days of yore when guys like me were in a cotton field all day and could be silenced with the lash of a whip. Or maybe it's just too ignorant altogether to be brought into the 21st Century any other way than kicking and screaming.

Maybe it's just time to call Guilford County what it's been all along: a sociopolitical morass that lurches along crushing decency underneath like a headless giant and trapping its citizens of lowest means within it. After all, is it any wonder it's shaped like a box?

By Bonds Unseen

2006-06-24T16:33:00.000-04:00

Some days I feel trapped.

I'm just now getting to sit down at the computer and compose this post, which I have to do quickly becuase the library will be closing in less than 90 minutes, and I still have a lot to do before they kick me out. Then I have to run (perhaps literally) to the bus terminal to catch the last bus that will take me close to the house.

Living on someone else's agenda using limited time. There's a trap right there. But as the well-known commercial intones: "But wait -- there's more!"

I also feel trapped by the remote location of our neighborhood and the near-nonexistent bus service thereto. Trapped by the lack of income that would allow me to handle everyday expenses and escape poverty hell. Trapped by a job that I'm frankly no good at and that pays within throwing distance of minimum wage. Trapped by a lack of independent transportation.

Trapped by a lack of options in general.

Don't get me wrong; even living in the Hinterlands is a lot better than being bound to GIHN's rules and regs (which, I've come to find out, aren't always evenly applied. Strange, that...) and I can remember a time when the buses in this town stopped running for the day at 6:00 pm and not at all on Sundays*. But I can't help but look around at the barren landscape that used to be my future and asking "What the hell happened here?"

And it doesn't help that I have to look at what everybody else has and be reminded of what I'm missing out on. For instance, I'm the only one at my job that lacks a car, and I have to walk in ninety-plus degree heat being passed by cars with air conditioning. This is also the season at which people start to take vacations. Every summer of every year I have to sit in the corner and quietly seethe as I hear somebody else brag about their freakin' trip to the beach. Or the mountains. Or Vegas. Or SanFran. Or Europe.

You know when the last time I went to the beach was? Mike was 1 1/2 years old. He's 17 now. Do the math.

Okay, okay, I admit I'm doing too much grumping and not enough acting. I should also have more patience, but dammit, we've clawed our way out of homelessness; now we're ready to get back into our lives. Or reasonable facsimilies thereof.

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*I'm not exaggerating. The buses around here used to be operated by Duke Power Company (Now Duke Energy), and their budget was of course much smaller. Consequently the buses only ran 6 am-6 pm on weekdays and Saturdays, and there was no Sunday service at all. Meaning if you had an emergency or a job after that time, or missed the last bus from the mall, and had no other transport, you were officially boned.

But Prepare For the Worst

2006-06-20T16:56:00.000-04:00

My "experience" with Tropical Storm Alberto (see last post) got me thinking and reminded me that this is hurricane season for large portions of the Northern Hemisphere, particularly the Gulf and East coasts of America. All the disaster-preparedness and relief agencies all agree that now's a good time to prepare and think about what we'll do when disaster comes. This ain't bad advice; Katrina taught us a grim lesson about not being prepared for such a thing.

Katrina also exposed a horrible gap between the haves -- who could afford emergency generators and supplies and quick ways out of town -- and the have-nots, who had to basically hunker down and pray they didn't become statistics. The aftermath became highly politicized, but a disaster of that magnitude transcends politics. Democrat, Republican or whatever, the first thing people should think of once the winds die down is how do we make sure no more die in this one, and none die in the next?

The problem is of course even more acute when one is a have-not like me. It's all well and good to want to assemble provisions for disaster, but quite another to have the wherewithal to do so. I thought I would dedicate this post to putting out a few suggestions the poor can take to try and prepare for the next hurricane/flood/tornado/earthquake or other such calamity.

First, a few links to ways to assemble disaster preparedness kits online. A Google of "disaster kits" produced nearly 24 million hits, so I'll just point the way to a few of the most prominent free ones:

Red Cross Disaster Kit:
http://www.redcross.org/services/disaster/0,1082,0_3_,00.html

Hurricane Preparedness Kit Checklist:
http://www.nhc.noaa.gov/HAW2/english/prepare/supply_kit.shtml

About.com: How to Assemble a Disaster Supply Kit:
http://homebuying.about.com/cs/saferooms/a/disaster_kit.htm

And there's even one aimed at kids:

FEMA Kids Disaster Kit (more about FEMA in a bit):
http://www.fema.gov/kids/k_srvkit.htm

According to the Red Cross' site: "There are six basics you should stock for your home: water, food, first aid supplies, clothing and bedding, tools and emergency supplies, and special items." These items don't have to be top quality, just quality enough to keep the family alive in an emergency. The absolute best places to get these items (if you don't already own them) are the dollar stores (such as Dollar Tree), the small discounters (such as Maxway) and the big box retailers (Wal-Mart, K-Mart and Big Lots).* Don't overlook thrift stores such as Goodwill; at the very least you can buy emergency changes of clothes there. Go over the lists of suggested items carefully and substitute cheaper versions where you can. Wal-Mart and K-Mart both offer lay-a-way if you don't have a lot of cash on hand and you want to many items at once.

Look around your house and see what you may already have. Got a roll of tape you seldom use? Throw it in the kit. A spare bottle of alcohol? In the kit. Empty milk jug? Fill it with water; in the kit. Coloring book and crayons the kids ignore? In the kit.

A few items that are kind of pricey but could be handy are vacuum sealers such as FoodSavers (to prepare things like nuts and other such foods ahead of time), those closet bags you attach to a vacuum cleaner hose and suck the air out of (helps save space), and the flashlights and radios you crank to power up, rather than having to search for batteries which, as we all know, you can never find when it's crunch time. Again, these items can be put on lay-a-way at Wal-Mart of K-Mart.

Paycheck won't let you even put things on lay-a-way? Buy an item or two now and get another item or two next payday. There's nothing wrong with nickel-and-diming it. The idea is to have it assembled by the time disaster does strike, but I guess it's better to have some of the stuff put aside than to have nothing at all and be caught, as we say in the South, "with yer britches down."

You'll need a container to put it all in. While moving, I've had great success with those large plastic storage bins you can find in just about any department store. You can put almost anything in those things. I've found Wal-Mart and Big Lots to have the cheapest. A 30-gallon** version is about $4.00 and a 10-15 gallon one is about $3.50. The bins come molded with handles on the ends, so carrying is a breeze, and the lids snap shut and are designed so that the bins are stackable. The apartment is full of the ones we've brought from the storage unit and I plan to buy more as funds permit.

The only other advice I guess I have is to always think in worst-case scenarios, then think of ways to avoid or get out of them. I've noted the safe points in the apartment during a tornado (the downstairs bathroom and the laundry closet seem to fit the bill), nearby bodies of water in case of flood (two retention ponds, one near the front yard, and a stream where I guess all the geese are coming from) and alternate routes to avoid the water, and thought of at least two ways out of the apartment and out of town (we're not far from a major thoroughfare and a major highway.) If nothing else, think of somewhere nearby to run, just in case (a major manufacturer has a plant nearby, if we have to bolt fast.)

It's even more imperative that any homeless reading this also think about preparation. Plot a quick way out of the area, if nothing else, and notice any nearby solid structures where you can take shelter. Those of you who are sleeping under overpasses should take special note of the sky when storms get bad. The notion that an overpass is a safe place in a tornado has sadly been proven a myth. It may be the same in a powerful enough hurricane too.

We don't get many earthquakes around here, so I have no specific advice for that. I imagine the contents of your kit are good use in the aftermath of quakes as well, if it was powerful enough to hinder immediate rescue.

Speaking of rescue, one lesson I learned from Katrina, even though she didn't hit us directly, is that you cannot, should not rely on FEMA to take care of you. FEMA has been exposed as one of the most bumbling outfits ever, and the news of their screwups during and after Katrina just keep coming to this day. In fact, I would go so far as to say assume help is not forthcoming and you'll be on your own, and assemble you kit with that in mind. then, if help does come, it'll be even more of a welcome sight.

I'm not promoting myself as an expert here, and some of what I'm putting out may just be hot air. Either way, I hope you and I never have to put any of it to the test, but remember the old adage: "Expect the best, but prepare for the worst.

Just my $0.02.

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*I know many people swear by Target, but I've found that Wal-mart's and K-Mart's prices are cheaper and they have a better selection. YMMV, of course.

**An apology to any friends still reading from Europe and other areas that use the metric system. I've used imperial measures all my life, so it's just easier for me. There are conversion tables and software online to convert any measures you're not already familiar with.

Alberto and Me

2006-06-15T20:22:00.000-04:00

The remnants of Tropical Storm Alberto came to town yesterday, and he brought a lot of rain with him. Greensboro must've been at the fringe of the system becuase it started raining sometime Tuesday night and kept up a steady beat all Wednesday morning, not stopping until early afternoon. I had cracked the window the night before to get some fresh air into the room, and was greeted to the sound of rain falling on the roof the next morning.

I've always loved rainy days. Maybe I'm just weird, but I love the gloom of the thick clouds, the sound of the rain as it falls on the roof and the concrete, the mist, the coolness, and the stillness. Rainfall is one thing I can always count on to soothe me to sleep and keep the Beast at bay. Especially under a tin roof, like houses used to have in this part of the country. I will never forget the sound of the rain on my grandmother's tin roof. Hearing that sound never fails to bring back very pleasant memories. I pity people who've never heard the sound.

I even like watching thunderstorms* through the door, although as I've aged, I've learned not to get too insane about it. Watching the lightning and seeing the rain beat everything into submission under a canopy of cloud-supplied gloom is one of those moments I live for. But I'm old enough now to recognize the danger when the lightning gets a little too bright, the thunder gets a little too loud and the show on TV gets replaced by a worried-looking meteorologist standing in front of multi-colored maps. Then it's time to close the door and listen out for sounds of a freight train.**

But yesterday morning carried none of that. It was just pleasantly gloomy, misty and rainy. Just like I like it. The kids weren't up yet and Mama was still drowsing in bed, So I got myself downstairs, made some coffee, pulled a chair up to the front window, popped in a mix CD I'd made especially for days like this and drifted into my own little world of rain and music.

I was still there when Ness came down wanting her customary cereal and TV. Sigh. Still, for about an hour, it was Heaven on Earth.

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*As a child, I used to stand in my grandmother's metal screen door, quite unafraid, as thunderstorms would spend their fury right over the house. Used to scare her to death. I never could understand why she worried so, but now I know: Stupid me was courting a lightning strike near all that metal.

**This may become a problem someday as we are close enough to some train tracks to hear a train passing. As everyone knows, the sound of an approaching tornado has been descriibed asa sounding like a freight train. I've got to teach the kids to stay especially sharp during bad storms.

Adventures in Government

2006-06-12T16:37:00.000-04:00

There's an old adage that says you can't fight City Hall.

I say, not only had you damn well better fight City Hall, you better make it a tooth-and-nails, no-holds-barred, ask-no-quarter-and-give-none furball.

While on my way to work Tuesday morning, I read the paper on the bus* and noticed an article saying that, as part of their budget for next year, the City Council was considering cutting housing aid?! And mass transit for the disabled?!

Okay, I was officially awake. This required further investigation.

Turned out that one of the items up for the budget ax was something called the Nussbaum Fund, with was a 1.8 million dollar fund that, among other things, helped fund homeless shelters and affordable rental options. According to the article, the city was planning to eliminate that fund to help keep property taxes down. Specifically, to keep the owner of a $150,000 house from paying an extra $72 a year in property taxes.

Forgive me, but if you can afford a $150,000 home (and in Guilford County, that can be a lot of house) what's wrong with an extra $6 a month to ensure that no more children have to bed down in another homeless shelter?** Hell, those guys probably blow that much at Starbucks. Every other day.

To make matters worse, also on the chopping block was SCAT, a city program that helps the disabled (many of whom can't use the regular bus service) get to such things as doctor's appointments, the grocery store, and the pharmacies.

I got so upset reading that article that I actually contemplated calling in sick to work and going straight to this blog. I actually got so upset, the Beast opened one eye to see what was going on. Seeing that it didn't require his abililty to snack on my psyche, he went back to sleep.

Unfortunately, calling in sick wasn't an option. I needed the money too bad. So, seething about the injustice of it all, I reported for work, but spend a good bit of my brain's processing power (and believe me, there's not much to spare these days!) working out what I was going to say to the City Council at the public hearing scheduled for later that evening.

After work, I doubletimed it to the bus to make sure I got to the Council meeting in time. The Council Chambers are on the secod floor of City Hall, in a room designed to looko as though it's suspended in space. It's well appointed, with room for the Council and a goodly number of concerned citizens, perhaps 150.

People must've read that article and gotten as upset as I, because about 15 minutes after I sat down, it was standing room only.

The meeting started and was fairly routine until the hearings for the budget cuts. Then, everyone found out that over 30 people were signed up to speak, including Yours Truly. That's 3 times the usual amount of speakers that show up.

The people that spoke for preservation of the Nussbaum Fund (housing) were better prepared and more articulate than I. One guy had brought along a PowerPoint presentation that brought his central points home with sledgehammer power and arrow accuracy. One of the Councilmen was forced to clarify that the Nussbaum Fund wasn't actually up for elimination; that has been part of a "worst-case scenario" that they'd discussed regarding keeping property taxes down.

Right. And Godzilla only goes to Tokyo for the sushi.

Still, speaker after speaker lobbied on behalf of the Nussbaum Fund, preserving SCAT's service to the disabled, and for preserving library services (which were also due for cutting) and on behalf of a swim center. Everyone who spoke made their case with brilliance, eloquence or elan.

Then it was my turn to speak. Everything had been said that needed to be said and clarifications had been made. I had been afraid that I'd be the only one speaking out on behalf of those who might become homeless, but it turns out that article had stirred a hornet's nest of concern. Still, there was one thing that none of the other speakers covered.

I framed my comments as trying to get the Council to consider the Human Factor. They had discussed the budget and its financial and economic ramifications, yes, but they had not considered the human ramifications. They hadn't considered that homelessness would go up, and that others would go through what I had. They wouldn't see the anguish of those who either once had homes or who had homes within their grasp, only to see it all torn away. They wouldn't have to coach other through their depression and help them battle their Beasts.

Or at least, I tried to convey that general idea. I only had three minutes, and despite my time in my high school Drama Club, I had a bad case of stage fright. I'm not sure how well I made my case; only that no one came after me with pitchforks afterward, so I guess I did okay.

One of the councilwomen, one of the most influential in the black community, asked me if I had seen any direct help from the Nussbaum Fund while my family was homeless. I admitted to her that I had not, but that was simply because I wasn't sure if IHN relied on any of its money or not. But that was no reason for others not to benefit. I think she's read the blog, becuase she asked me if my story is documented anywhere. When I told her online at "View From the Sidewalk", she gave me a thumbs-up. I think she was waiting for me to make that plug.

Still, on my way to the bus depot, I breathed a sigh of relief. I and many others had persuaded the City Council to preserve most, if not all, of the housing funds and perhaps I've even gained a few new readers in the process.

And I didn't have to engage in a furball, after all.

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*As I am wont to do; I'm not much of a conversationalist, and I've already seen all the scenery.

**And before the I-hate-taxes and the You're-a-damn-socialist crowds start in on me, remember, even though I live below the federal poverty level, I too pay income and sales taxes. Whether I like it or not. And I don't. But I'll gladly pay double to keep another family from going through what mine went through.

Tim's Story

2006-06-12T15:59:00.000-04:00

Last Monday, after work, I had to go to the Plasma Center and sell some blood plasma* to get enough bus fare to last a few days. Yeah, selling blood for bus fare. Or food. Or medicine. Or various and assorted other things you need to get by from day to day. Welcome to America. Even so, I got out late; I figured that the last daytime-scehdule bus -- which would take me straight downtown -- had already passed and the nnext (night) bus wouldn't be by for over an hour. Nothing to it but walk downtown, I suppose, a forty-five minute trip.

Naturally, ten minutes in, I was greeted by the sight of the daytime bus shooting past on the other side of the street on its way downtown. Dammit.

Treating myself to a muttered curse under my breath, I buckled down and left-righted down Lee St. toward downtown. As I passed under the overpass that carries Freeman Mill Road over Lee St., I looked up into the girders. I had noticed signs of habitation there before, but this time I saw the inhabitant. A thin, bearded man relaxed against a concrete block at the top of the slope waved as a passed by. I waved back, but kept my pace. Once I passed out from under the bridge's shadow, though, I stopped. I remember I'd written about how while we were homeless, we'd not met any others. Something also told me that this man had a story that needed telling. So I about-faced, went back under the bridge and asked him if he had a moment. He said sure, come on up.

Okay. We've done the climbing the bridge support slope thing before. Yes, my knees objected. Yes, my feet complained (after all, asking them to pull a six hour shift bearing by 240-plus pounds, then walking nearly three miles on concrete was a bit much). And yes, this time, my hip decided to consider mutiny, but I did it. After a moment, I was sitting next to Tim, a friendly man that looked to me not too much younger than me. I introduced myself, gave him a 50-words-or-less version of my story and asked if I could ask him a few things to put in the blog.

Tim is a born-again Christian who's been homeless since March of 2000. Originally from South Carolina, he once was riding high enough economically to buy his mother a house. Unfortunately a series of layoffs hit the family and they eventually lost the house. Tim bounced between Myrtle Beach, Columbia, and Florence (once walking the 80 miles between Florence and Columbia looking for work). He stayed with various relatives, and when that looked like it would become an extended period, he began staying in various shelters and other temporary lodgings. He arrived in Greensboro on a borroed bus ticket in 2002 and has been here ever since.

In talking with Tim, I noticed that he didn't seem to have any obvious infirmities. He was physically fit enough to climb up the bridge slope and possessed all his limbs. His speech wasn't slurred and he had excellent motor control, indicating no mental or chemical impairment. He was very articulate and attributes his good health to his faith in God. He told me that he had a good upbringing, in a family that took its relationship with God seriously. He was saved in 1997. He hasn't let his ill fortune get the better of him, seeing his periods of homelessness as opportunities to learn life lessons and to use them to make himself a better person. He has admitted to bouts of depression, but has unshakable faith that God will always see him through.

I couldn;t spend much time, becuase the light levels were fading, and I was having trouble seeing the notes I was hurriedly taking, but I made sure before I left to give him the address of the blog and promised that I'd get his story out there. I also gave him two organizations I could think of off the top of my head (one was the Guilford County Homeless Prevention Coalition -- heads up, Cara!) and under the guise of "paying him for his time," I gave him some of the cash I'd gotten from the plasma center. Seemed the right thimg to do.

I haven't been back that way since, so I been able to check on him. But you know what? Seeing and hearing the way Tim talked about his faith in God, I know he's doing just fine.

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*You read right. There are places where you can go and sell blood plasma to help make ends meet. It's not as ghoulish as it sounds. The plasma is used to make products such as hemophilia treatments and the procedure is clean and quick. Still, it does necessarily involve needles and pain, which is why I don't make a regular habit of it.

Life in the Hinterlands

2006-06-12T15:27:00.000-04:00

No posts for almost two weeks. What a slacker that guy is!

Actually, there are several good reasons I haven't posted for awhile, and it's not like I haven't been busy.

As I mentioned before, the bus stops and schedules at our new location really work against us. The bus only runs once an hour, so if we miss one, it's an entire hour until the next. This can throw schedules into chaos very quickly. Add to that the fact that on weekdays the nearest bus stop is a half-mile away, and to get there we have to navigate a major thoroughfare (we won't mention the staggering number of crazy drivers in Greensboro...yet) and cross a train track (not when the train is using it, of course) and you see that getting to the stop can be an adventure. Mike and I each have almost been hit twice by cars, and I shudder to think about Mama and Ness trying to scamper across the roadway. Still, we manage to get some of our agenda accomplished, very slowly.

For the past week, I've been trying to log onto the blog and post, but a couple times I've gotten computers that were no good, or run into unexpectedly large crowds at the library, and there have been several times in the week where I could not get onto Blogger (it was down for maintanance one day, at least, as other bloggers can tell you.)

Still, I'm here now, so I'll just briefly try and recap what's been going on.

I've been in talks with an ad agency about joining the staff there. This job was related to me by a good friend of mine, so I knew the recommendation was on the up-and-up. I have a second interview with them tomorrow; we'll see what happens.

Last Saturday, we received some free computers with all the trimmings courtesy of the generosity of two of my Readers (thanks, Sue and Dave!). These weren't basment refugees, either, folks. These were two good ones, with big screens and everything, and even came with printers. Mike immediately made sure one disappeared into the depths of his room. Ness claimed the other, but I decreed that it should stay downstairs, since I'll also be using it to post and find work whenever we get internet service. I'm currently trying to get my hands on a table to put it on since our old table gasped its last when we moved out of our old place.

I met and talked to a homeless man last Monday. Tim has been bouncing around North and South Carolina trying to find a permanent home for the past few years. Like I did, he busts the stereotype of a homeless person. I promised to get his story online, but I'll do that in a post dedicated solely to that purpose.

Last Tuesday, whle on my way to work, I discovered through the News & Record that the City Council who have been in negotiations to set next year's budget, have been considering cutting items such as housing aid and bus services for the disabled. My response upon seeing that article was, and I quote, "Aw, hell, no!" So after work, I made a beeline straight for City Hall to attend the council meeting. I'll devote a sole post to that, too. It was quite an interesting experience.

Ness' birthday was yesterday, June 11. She turned 9 (going on 39, I like to say) and in an indication of just how pathetic her old man is, she not only didn't get a birthday party or a present, I had to work to boot! Fortunately, the mom of one of her best friends had been planning a surprise party for her and she had a great time, but I still feel like a low-grade rat for not being able to at least come up the $7.00 tub of Floam that she really wanted.

We experienced our first storm since moving into the apartment, and we've discovered that a corner of the living room has a small leak near the floor. It's not too bad, but we've noticed that the harder it rains, the faster the water puddles. So far, we're controlling it with towels and keeping electrical items out of that corner until I can get hold of Maintenance. Just an annoyance, really, but a torrent might actually cause a problem. We nearly got one yesterday. A cluster of severe thunderstorms moved through the Triad, creating some impressive llightning and wind gusts and knocking out our power twice. Rockingham County, the county immediately north of us, got a tornado warning. Our storm got rambunctious enough that I did scan the sky at one point for funnel clouds, but fortunately it didn't get to that point.

ETA

2006-05-30T14:40:00.000-04:00

As most of you know by now, I currently don't have functional transportation of my own; my Trusty Steed is in the shop, but getting it back on the roads is slow going. That means the family and I have to depend on Greensboro's mass transit system to get about. But of course the buses don’t always go where we need them to go. And arriving at a specific place at a specific time takes calculations on the order of getting the Space Shuttle off the ground.

For instance, just to get to work, I have to take the West Market Street bus downtown, transfer to the West Wendover bus, travel to another transfer point out West Wendover, and get off the bus near the store.

More extensive travel makes it worse. To get to Jamestown, a small town between Greensboro and High Point where I had business last week, I had to take West Market downtown, transfer to the High Point Road bus that travels to the southwestern sector of town, transfer to the High Point Road Connector, which transports people out to the Jamestown campus of Guilford Technical Community College, and then transfer to a Hi-Tran bus run by the City of High Point that meets the GTA bus at GTCC.

Of course, all these transfers and whatnot take time. Lots of it. Getting to work consumes an hour and a half. Getting to Jamestown was the better part of two hours.

And that’s if I hit all my transfers on time. Buses break down, get stuck in traffic, and have their share of fools and crazies that delay the bus. Even a few minutes’ delay can spell the difference between waiting a few minutes for a connecting bus and waiting a full hour.

I’ve heard people who used to live up North who now live in the area express bafflement that the buses down here take an hour between trips and then don’t go everywhere they should. They’re used to having buses run every 15-20 minutes and getting off within no more than a couple blocks of their stop.

By contrast, the bus from the apartment runs only once an hour, and the nearest stop is a half-mile away. On weekdays. On weeknights and on Sundays, the nearest stop is a mile and a half away. Needless to say, we don’t get out much on weeknights and Sundays.

Another problem is that, although Greensboro, feeling its economic oats, has undertaken a frenzy of building, the best jobs and shopping are seldom built within easy reach of the bus routes. In fact, it could be said that developers seem to go out of their way to place businesses nowhere near the bus routes. No doubt due to a biases perception against poor people.

A case in point: some years ago, the library system had a branch in the Northwest part of town directly on a bus line, and in the Southwestern part of town, only about a block from a bus line. A new library was built out on New Garden road, miles from any buses whatsoever, and another was built farther out in southwest, again nowhere near a bus line. The two on the bus routes were of course promptly closed. That effectively cut off research and reading opportunities for poor people living in two sections of town.

Well, since the buses are woefully inefficient, what alternatives are there for getting around in Greensboro without a car? There is bicycling, of course, but since Greensboro was designed solely with cars in mind, bike trails and road space is in short supply. And drivers around here tend to regard bicyclists as little more than speed bumps. Everyone here who rides a bike has at least one horror story involving a driver.

Walking is a good option: it’s great exercise and gives you time to notice and appreciate your surroundings, but besides being slow, the aforementioned problem with insane drivers also applies, as sidewalks are in short supply, forcing you to walk close enough to the road to be clipped by large vehicles, or on the roadbed itself. And we won’t even mention the occasional heckler who decides to enhance his enjoyment of the day by hurling invective -- or worse -- at you. And during the summer months, North Carolina temperatures can make extensive walking life-threatening.

In the city’s defense, however, changes are coming. GTA just approved a new initiative to make the buses run every 30 minutes, but of course, that involves a fare increase. And the city has begun an effort to put in more sidewalks along areas with heavy foot traffic.

Still can’t wait to get my Trusty Steed back under me, though. That ought to cut transit time considerably.

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*Mostly condos, but there are a few high-profile shopping venues under construction. And a giant skyscraper in the middle of downtown, after lying dormant for many years, is finally going to be rebuilt soon. Naturally, few of these places are near the bus lines.

Treading Water

2006-05-26T18:33:00.000-04:00

So what has our Erstwhile Hero been doing with himself since the last post, nearly a month (?!) ago?

Since we were approved for public housing, we've been taking care of the inevitable meetings and paperwork reviews/signings that must come with such a bounty and moving various and sundry items out of our storage unit and GIHN's Day Center. That's not quite as pleasant as it sounds; the first day I was able to secure a moving van, about a week after we'd signed the lease on the apartment, I only had enough money to rent the thing for a half-day. So, I had to go to an agency that had agreed to give us some furniture*, pick it up, drop by the Day Center, grab what I could out of there, drive to the Hinterlands to the apartment and offload everything. Oh, and did I mention that all of this had to be done in four hours? Because the half-day started at 9 am and it took me until after 11 am (traveling by bus, remember) to go to the first office, find that they had not trucks available, travel to a second office that had one available, but wait for the manager to get back from whatever she was up to.

Whew!

I did it, but it wasn't easy. I don't know how I avoided throwing out my back. Must've been a sight for the neighbors, though to watch this fat guy, 43-going-on-80, grabbing stuff -- some of it very large -- out of a 16' moving van and trooping across the yard without letup, dumping it unceremoniously into the lviing room, and going back for more. As though he were still in his 20s! What the heck...?

Did I mention I got it done in thirty minutes? No, don't ask; I have no earthly idea how I did it. All I know is the truck had to be back by 3:00 and I didn't pull up to the apartment until 2:25.

Other than that Herculean feat, we've been keeping very busy. I'm still looking for substantial work while holding down my job at the store (sigh!) Mama's looking for work, but the pressure's off her now, so we're talking about sending her to GTCC to take advantage of their training programs. Mike and Ness** are still wrestling with grades, and looking forward to summer break in a couple weeks.

I've also got a project going on the side that I can't talk about yet, but it's due the end of June, so I've been hustling on it best I can.

The News & Record asked me to write an article for their editorial section a few weeks ago; it ran this past Sunday. It looked good, and took up way more space than I thought it would (or I thought I deserved). Quite a few people around town have recognized me from the photo that ran with it, which is amazing becuase since then I've gotten a haircut and gained several pounds, but so far everyone's been very complimentary. I wish I could link to it, but I can't find it on their site. I chose as the theme of the essay "What Have I Learned?" And the editors ran several blog excerpts to go with it.

I've also been answering e-mails as best I can, although there have been significant lag times. However, I want to thank everyone who's sent along well wishes and kudos. They've been a great boost.

And the Beast? He hasn't been bothering me much lately. A sting here, a twinge there, but now I've got something to swat him across the nose with. I did court disaster one day a couple weeks ago, however. I was in rare high spirits; the sky was blue, the birds were singing, traffic was light, I had a place to live. I was feeling pretty cocky. I actually started needling the Beast. Pointing out that he wasn't so tough and where was his pointy, pointy mental barbs now, and things seemed to be finally turning the corner for me.

He simply responded with one word: "Traci."

Oh. Okay. He can defend himself, very much so. I shut the hell up. Fast.

Other than that brief encounter, though, he's left me pretty much alone, even at work. Kinds scares me, though, because I know he's still in that dark little corner of my brain, awaiting an opportunity. He won't get it today, though. And maybe not tomorrow, either.

My only regret about leaving GIHN is that I've had to go back to cooking for myself now. I readily admit I'm not the world's greatest cook. I have recurring nightmares of the Iron Chefs, Emeril Lagasse and Rachael Ray all ganging up on me and beating me to death with various kitchen implements for daring to try and...cook?! The volunteers at the various churches always handled the cooking and they were a lot better at it than I am.

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*A lot of our larger pieces of furniture became landfill fodder when we hurriedly moved out of our old home, including our dressers, our mattresses and our fridge. It's not so bad; the furniture was all salvaged and the fridge was on the fritz anyway, so it sorta worked out.

**I noticed recently that I've been calling her "Ness" more than "Nessie", so I'll just stick to that convention here.

At the Foot of Olympus

2006-05-26T18:18:00.000-04:00

[FADE IN on a little girl, sitting in front of an active television set. On the screen is nothing but snow and static, but she seems not to notice as she intently watches an image only she can apparently see. The little girl reaches toward the screen and places her hand on it, in some sort of communion with an unseen presence. Slowly she turns and looks back over her shoulder at the audience...

"He's baaaaaack..."]

Still here. Still whole (well, mostly...) And still trying to fight the economic winds. Unfortunately for my Gentle Readers, I'll no longer be talking specifically about my homelessness, because, well, we're not homeless anymore. But there are still things that should be talked about from the standpoint of poor people. In many ways, we down here in the mud are still trying to break through and make a way for ourselves and our children while up on the summit of Mount Olympus,, the CEOs, the High-Powered Financiers, the Politicians, the Movers and Shakers, and the Grand Poohbahs are clinking their champagne glasses together and making funny hats out of the stock pages and patting themselves on the backs about how many people they've hired (at minimum wage), how many jobs they've created (low-wage, dead-end service industry jobs), and how they've generally Benefited The Community (wow, we really did need those spanking-new condos with the view of the golf course, didn't we?)

I propose we scale the slopes of Olympus, you and I, and grab Zeus and company by the collar, give their consciences a good shake and shout in their ears "Hey! We're still here! We're still slaving away for peanuts and getting laid off and outsourced and assimilated by illegals and evicted! Oh, and by the way, the lottery and a hike in the minimum wage aren't the End Of Civilization As We Know It!"

Sound like a plan? Okay, let's get climbing...

The Sudden Glare of Daylight

2006-05-06T09:55:00.000-04:00

Events are occurring fast now, so fast I haven't even tried to keep up this week. Sorry about that, but I finally have some concrete news to share:

We'll soon be no longer homeless.

We've been approved for public housing! (Yeah, I know, but it's still better than being totally homeless...) We'll probably be moving in as early as next week. Finally, a place of our own! Well, considering...

We got the call from the Greensboro Housing Authority last week. It came clear out of the blue, and on the day after I was told that out time in GIHN was almost up and that I had to start looking for alternatives. It seems surreal now, but I remember later that same day, one of the staffers told me that just when things seemed their darkest, that's when something comes through. I didn't believe it at the time, but she was right. The day after the call, Mama and I went down to file the paperwork and set up an appointment to look the apartment over. It's in kind of a remote section of town, meaning that the nearest bus stop is a half-mile away, but at least it's something to call our own until we can get fully back on our feet. We didn't need much discussion to decide to take the place. Besides, if we hadn't, we would have had to go back on the waiting list for housing.

No, best to strike while the iron's hot.

So that light I saw approaching wasn't an oncoming train for a change; it was actually the end of the tunnel. No more dodging the Shinkansen. At least not in this situation. No more giving up our privacy. No more pressure to takeajobanyjob. No more shuttling from church to church each week. No more having our schedules dictated by someone else's agenda.

Our. Own. Space.

I know, I know: big deal, people get places to live every day. But getting one after you've been rendered homeless and unable to establish a base is big. I guess I'm just not adequately describing the feeling right now. Put it like this: the Beast isn't feeling real well right now.

So what's next for us, now that we're almost out of this hellish situation?

Well, first off, you guys in the blogosphere won't be getting rid of me so easily. I plan to continue the blog; for awhile, anyway. It'll just be changing focus, is all. There's still a lot to tell about the Triad, some bad, some good, and not all of it's being told from the viewpoint of the poor. And there are still others struggling through homelessness down here in the mud while others are up on Mount Olympus making decisions for them. If nothing else, I've got a big mouth, so I'll still be around to give everybody the View From the Sidewalk.

I still have to get a better job, of course, but living in subsidized housing affords me time. Without the pressure to takeajobanyjob, I have time to go back to Guilford JobLink and sign up for job training. Or maybe go for full-blown educatioon at Guilford Tech or go back to UNCG and finish the degree I started in the '80s. With all of that, I can get a better job, then maybe -- just maybe -- parley the higher income into my own house. One I can't get kicked out of. One where I can stand on my front porch and moon all the landlords in the city for keeping me firmly wedged under their gold-grubbing thumbs while denying them the income they so slaveringly crave.

Sorry, regressed to childhood for a moment. Get a grip. Pull it in. Continue.

Mike and Nessie will be able to concentrate on school now without any other considerations (although I think Nessie enjoyed making new friends while in the network). And Mama can stretch her yoga mat out wherever she wants and go at it while waiting for her herbal tea to steep. I'll be able to go to work not worrying about what tactic the Beast will use to jump my mind. This removes one of his worst weapons. He's got plenty others, of course, but they're a lot less effective due to familiarity.

I'm going to take a few days off to get everything ready, but trust me -- as Arnold Schwarzenegger said in The Terminator, "I'll be back!"

But for right now, we did it. We won. And we've got a lot to do.

We're going home.

The Greene Street Continuum

2006-05-02T16:37:00.000-04:00

Our host church this week is First Presbyterian, the second-largest (or maybe the largest) church in Greensboro. I previously posted that Mt. Zion is the largest, but after stalking the halls of this structure, I may have to reassess that view.

Being there is already an adventure. On our first night, our hosts warned us that it is very easy to get lost in First Presby, so we'd have to learn our way around quickly. I have a pretty good sense of direction, so I learned my way around ina short time. Mama, however, got lost the very next morning. When she didn't show up for breakfast, I started a search for her. Unfortunately, she hadn't yet turned on her cell phone, so the task wasn't helped by technology. After about 20 anxious minutes, I was forced to admit defeat and go back and get Mike and Nessie off to school. We found out that Mama had made her way out of the building altogether (by what route I don't yet know). Still for a few minutes, I was imagining all sorts of things; a few even involved rogue tears in the space-time continuum*.

Had a phone interview this morning with a local manufacturer that's looking for a junior designer. I don't think it went well because I generally don't do well on phone interviews, but also I think the interviewer was concerned that I was after a junior position with senior experience. Still, we'll see. As I said in my last post, I don't consider graphic design to be my priority job search goal anymore. So I ain't gonna sweat it.

I saw a young woman out near Wendover yesterday, surprisginly with a "Homeless. Hungry. Please Help" sign. What was surprising was her age (she couldn't possibly have made a serious dent in her thirties yet) and her apparent health. This was very distressing to me on several levels. There was, of course, her feeding of the perception of the homeless (which I've spoken of before, so I'll spare the Gentle Readers the reiteration), but also she was out begging when it would be all too easy, due to her age and health, to get a job somewhere. And in a more sinister vein, there are plenty of sexual assaulters, kidnappers and other assorted crazies around here that are all too well versed at making girls like her into statistics.

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*I know, I know, I've been reading too much science fiction lately...

Bits and Pieces

2006-04-30T14:29:00.000-04:00

Just a few quickies, to catch things up...

• Found out that one of the churches in IHN won't be hosting families after this year. Won't say which one, but it's one of the ones we've previously been guests of. Fortunately, it's not due to anything negative. They're just going to be doing some necessary renovating and won't be having the same amount of space or facilities to host overnight families. I say to them, Godspeed, my friends. And thank you for being there when we needed you.

• I'm currently locked in mortal combat with several nasty computer viruses*. The computer at the Day Center, which is set up for the families' Internet use, curiously had almost no protection on it whatsoever. No firewalls, no spyware killers, little antiviral protection. And as a result, the thing's caught several pieces of malware that have set about merrily disabling the antivirals and playing pure hell with the system. I've been doing some research on the Web and downloading what I could to stop the infectious march. It goes back and forth. Some days, I manage to kill some of the little buggers, some days, they make me want to tear what little hair I have out. But at least I seem to be learning another skill. Of course, the whole thing would be easier if the staff would (1) remove the administrator lockouts so I can install some heavy-hitting software, or (2) buy a Mac.

• There has been a new development that I don't want to report in detail just yet. For now, all I'll say is that off in the distance, I can see a little pinpoint of light, but I don't feel the concurrent rumbling of the tracks or hear a train whistle, so maybe, just maybe...

• I've decided to switch careers, because I'm sick of beating my head against the wall of obstinacy regarding trying to get a job in graphic design, although if a job comes through in the near future, I'll grab it. I'm just not treating it as a priority anymore. Meanwhile, I think I'll look into training for something in medicine, or even biotech or nanotech. It's layoff-proof, not likely to be outsourced, and pays pretty well. Plus, I've always had a soft spot for the applied sciences.

• I'm starting to wonder if Nessie isn't locked in struggle with her Beast. She'd been managing to keep hers at bay through the arts and friends, so I haven't been too worried. lately, though, we've noticed that she doesn'r seem to eat very much. I'm planning a doctor visit soon to see if anything's seriously wrong. Fingers crossed...

• Found this blogpost through Kevin Barbieux's blog. As an experiment in capitalism, this guy bought bottled water cheap and sold it at a profit, partnering with a homeless man to learn the ropes of the street and to avoid trouble with the cops and other homeless. It's a good idea, and one that's far more useful than walking up and down with a "Homeless-Hungry-God Bless" sign. He did the right thing, in finding out what the reactions of the cops and the homeless denizens would be, but did he have to refer to them as "bums"?

• Speaking of Homeless-Hungry-God Bless (and I know I'll raise Cara Michele's ire with this -- sorry Cara!) but I saw a man carrying one of these signs from the bus yesterday. The problem was, he not only had no visible informities of any sort, he looked to be younger and in better shape than me! I couldn't help but think that employers tend to fall all over themselves trying to hire guys like this. He could make more in five minutes at a job than he could by begging all day. Just my two cents...

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*Ha! Thought I'd say "locked in mortal combat with the Beast", didn't you? Actually, he's been quiet of late. Hmmm, maybe too quiet...

Got Milk (of Human Kindness)?

2006-04-30T14:09:00.000-04:00

Four days since my last post. I've gotta find a way to get back on schedule...

I must relate an incident that happened the other day when Mama and I were in Winston (and which I'd left out of my last post due to a regrettable combination of time running out on the library's computer and a horrendous lack of sleep). I'd previously mentioned it was raining all that day. We needed to catch the bus back downtown to catch our connection to Greensboro. If we hurried, we'd just make it. Trouble is, the stop in question was across the street and several blocks away from where we were at the time. Nothing for it but to scamper through the raindrops and hope we didn't get too wet. Mama had an umbrella, but it was one of those dinky little things designed to fit into a purse. I, of course, being a Macho Man American Male (grunt!) Who Has No Need of Such Pansy Contrivances, yo-hoooo, carried no umbrella.

Of course, that just meant that the rain would begin coming down faster. Oh, well...

As we were making our way thus, a car pulled up to an otherwise-empty parking lot we were approaching. A elegant-looking older lady got out with an imprerssive-sized umbrella and was heading directly toward us. She held out the umbrella saying, "Here, I think you need this!"

We thanked her profusely, and headed toward the bus stop, which, we were gratified to see, was one of those plexiglass affairs that would just about keep us dry until the bus showed up. Thinking the lady would want her umbrella back, I started heading toward the shelter with gusto, but to my surprise, she wasn't headed toward the bus stop, but toward her car.

"Wait, ma'am -- don't you want your umbrella back?"

"Oh, no, you can have it," she called back over her shoulder as she hopped in her car and prepared to take off. I barely had time to call out "Thank you" to her as she left.

See, guys, this is what I'm talking about. The Milk of Human Kindness. Doing Unto Others. This lady Got It. She extended herself to help two strangers in need and asked for nothing whatsoever in return. I feel guilty that I wasn't to at least return her umbrella (which Mama immediately claimed, passing along to me the little dinky affair that's kind of an unsult to a Macho Man American Male (grunt!) Who Needs No Help Against A Few Little Raindrops, yo-hoooo!) or to offer some sort of remuneration in return. I guess I'll send a Letter to the Editor to the Winston-Salem Journal thanking her and hope she sees it.

For the record, I have indeed given away such things as umbrellas, raincoats and even jackets to those in need. I don't do it often, of course, being of short fundage, but you know something? It feels good knowing you've made a difference in someone's life, no matter how small.

Betwixt Mayberry and Manhattan

2006-04-26T15:36:00.000-04:00

I haven't posted in four days?! I'm really getting slack...

I can't blame it all on my inherent slackness, however. Sleep deprivation and time constraints are beginning to take a heavy toll. And I ain't as young as I used to be.

Still, a few things of note happened over the past few days:

We're currently being hosted by Our Lady of Grace Catholic Church. It's only the second Catholic church I've ever set foot in in my life, and I'm finding I have to shake the TV image of Catholic churches I've been exposed to. I keep expecting to see nuns everywhere, and I know that not every Catholic church has them, since I never saw any at St. Pius X. Still, the members are very nice people (like all the IHN volunteers we've met so far) and the food is very good. The space allotted to u for the week is a detached house owned by the church in the lot next door. In its day, it must've been a very nice house, and even now I like the way it's laid out. I'd very much like to own a similar house one day. Maybe I'll make a sketch of the layout before we leave, and pass it along to an architect someday.

Went to Winston today on some business and to do a little networking. I took Mama along because she enjoys visiting the arts district downtown. It rained the entire time, but I didn't mind; I like rainy days, although they're better suited for sleeping and...ahem...than strolling.

Despite sharing a region (and at the rate they're growing, perhaps in a few years, a common border), Greensboro and Winston-Salem are vastly different cities. Even going beyond the "we're us and they're them" thing. For one thing, Winston takes art and artists very seriously, as evidenced by the murals and other works of art you see all over the city. Winston also has a well-defined and developed arts district and community. Greensboro on the other hand sees art and artists as purely commodities, nothing more than something to show off to other cities and corporations via developers orgasming to build the latest and greatest gaudy gewgaw. Mama and I have observed that Winston is awash in older buildings, most of which are still in general use. As a result, there are all kinds of eclectic little hole-in-the-wall shops tucked away in buildings that range up to a century old. Greensboro tends to sweep away such places as soon as they appear, except for, lately the downtown district, which is coming back to life after lying comatose for years. Winston, although smaller, seems to embrace its own potential and is willing to try all sorts of social and architectural experiments to try and better the quality of life. Greensboro on the other hand, seems to be, well...terrified of its own potential. It desperately wants to be another Charlotte, but doesn't want to give up being another Mayberry. So, we stay sadly stuck somewhere in the middle.

Ah, I hear the inevitable question, one I've asked myself many times: So why not move to Winston? Believe me, I've pondered it long and hard; I may yet at some point, but at this immediate juncture, several things conspire to stop me: lack of money, lack of desire to uproot the children from their schools (where they're doing very well) and the fact that Winston is set in the foothills of the Appalachian Mountains. We're talkin' some steep streets over there, folks. And ice storms and I (of which North Carolina seems to get more than it's share) don't get along. I've slid down way too many Greensboro hills (which tend to be gentler) -- on foot and in a car -- to not respect Winston's.

I know that's a petty point; obviously Winston's citizens have techniques for dealing with ice. Call it a quirk, I guess.

Besides, as I've pointed out, the way these two cities (and High Point) are trying to grow together, it'll all be one sprawling metroplex soon enough. There's even a local civic effort called "Heart of the Triad" designed to plan the future growth of the region and attract good jobs and industry. They've already make a good start.

They Also Serve, Who Only Stand and Wait

2006-04-22T20:04:00.000-04:00

I haven't said enough about the many IHN volunteers that serve at the churches. They're the engine that makes the organization run. They take time out to cook for us, chaperone us at night, make sure we understand something about how the churches run, make sure things stay neat and orderly, make sure the kids don't get too rowdy, make sure the trips between the churches and the Day Center are safe and risk-free, are ready with the histories and backgrounds of the churches, communicate and coordinate schedules with the Day Center staff and each other, and another billion little things that go one behind the curtain that grease the wheels of IHN. Yes, even providing a sympathetic ear when the weight of our situation presses down just a tad too hard. And I've met an astonishing number who are quick to provide job leads or make employment inquiries on our behalf. you heard of "networking"? Well, there you are.

I've written before of my guilt at these fine people taking time out from their families to help us through a difficult situation. In one of his columns, the News & Record's Doug Clark encouraged me to put my mind at ease about the service of the volunteers. It took me a while, but I finally realized that the volunteers do this out of a sense of wanting to help others and extend a helping hand to someone that's fallen. In other words, they Get It. Would that so many others of us in this age of hip-hop, Lookin' Out For Number One and Death to [insert whatever group or race has drawn the ire at the moment]. Would that more of us would Get It.

Quick Hits

2006-04-21T07:12:00.000-04:00

Exhaustion's setting in, so maybe just a few quickies:

An IHN volunteer at Starmount Presbyterian, our host church this week, asked a good question yesterday morning. Unfortunately he asked before I was fully awake, so I don't recall the exact wording. Acknowledging the fact that the blog has been read all over the world now, he wanted to know if perhaps readers in other countries were getting a one-sided or slanted view of America. Through a fog of sleep deprivation, I believe my answer fell somewhere along the lines of people will always have a perception of America, good or bad, and I don't think what I say will necessarily make gross changes in that perception. He seemed satisfied with the answer, so I guess I wasn't totally inarticulate.

It seems lately that we're constantly on the move. Each day begins the same: up at 5:00-5:30, get the kids up and ready, eat a hurried breakfast, on the van, back to the Day Center. Then there's still the routine minutiae of each day: kids in school; Mama handling her business, including looking for work; me at work or looking for more work. Then back to the Day Center in time to be there when Nessie gets back from school and get ready to take the van over to the host church. Unless I'm at work, in which case, I often have to do a lot of standing, walking and lifting. And the stairs -- oy! Afterward, I take the bus to the church; the route is farther away at night, so that means a goodly hike.

My battle with Miss Stern at the store the other day made me forget that the vast majority of the people that come in are very friendly, or at least neutral. Such as the smiling lady that very same day who waited patiently while I tracked down a bottle of rug cleaner for her in the stockroom, or the nice couple just last night who dropped a bundle on some patio furniture and kept apologizing because they thought they were taking up all my time (they weren't; all part of the job). I just have to focus on the nice ones, is all.

Of Prices and Powerbombs

2006-04-19T06:30:00.000-04:00

There is a dictum that states "the customer is always right".

Sorry, no.

The customer is not right when accuse an "evil" store worker of rigging prices just to trip up an "innocent" shopper. I'm sure there are businesspeople Out There ruthless enough to do such a thing, but I'm not one of them. Nor, can I safely say, are my co-workers.

Ah, but an explanation is in order, framed by a bit of background: Yesterday, I had a chance to work in the ad agency in Winston for a half-day, but I had to decline, as I was already scheduled to work in the store. I wasn't happy at this turn of events because I would've made five times as much money at the agency that I would've at the store. This certainly colored my mood as I reported for my shift.

As I was cleaning up the Domestics department, I get a page over the store speakers to call the Customer Service desk. Such pages are usually to inform me that a customer needs help finding [insert desired object here] and that they're on their way back to the department. This time, however, was a little different. A woman wanted to buy a rug, and had seen that it was on sale by dint of the little red sign toppers we use to indicate sales. But the price was coming up as the regular price. Okay, so this one was going to be slightly more complicated than the usual "somebody needs help finding something." With a sigh, I headed to the desk to see what the problem was.

When I got there, a stern-looking woman was standing hard by with a long hallway rug rolled up on the desk. Whipping out my hand scanner, I scanned the barcode to see if my scanner would register a sale price. (It's rare that the hand scanner and the cash register disagree, but it's happened before.) My scanner also showed a regular, non-sale price. I asked the woman to show me the sale sign that she saw. This is standard procedure; when there's a price dispute where the customer claims to have seen "their" price on a sign, I have to verify it for myself. Most times, it's simply due to an error; a sale topper or sign will be inadvertently left up after the sale ended or some similar problem. In such a case, we simply give the customer the sale price and explain the store policy on discrepancies. They go away happy, and we all get on with our lives.

This time, however, the problem was a little thornier. The sign, which advertised the regular price, was correct, but the sale topper should not have been on the sign. Probably just an oversight by the Sign Crew. I explained to the Stern Looking Woman what the problem was, and that the presence of the sale topper was no doubt just an error. After all, we have to change hundreds of those signs -- of varying sizes -- in that store on a regular basis; some are bound to get overlooked.

The response cam in an exasperated huff: "Well why does it say 'Sale' if it's not on sale?"

I tried to explain patiently -- again -- that the presence of the sale topper was no doubt an error...

"Well, if it says 'sale', I ought to get it on sale, shouldn't I?"

Yes, ma'am, but the policy is we have to give you the price that the sign says, and in this case, the sign doesn't actually indicate a sale, despite the sale topper, which is no doubt an oversight by the Sign Team...

"Well I ought to get it on sale if it says 'sale'!"

Sensing the approach of a spiral argument, and my own rising ire at having to deal with such a dullard on a day when I didn't even want to be there in the first place, I tried to end the affair quickly by offering Miss Stern a 10% discount, which is all I'm authorized to do on the spot. And more than I was required to do, since the blasted rug wasn't even on sale to begin with. But it's Good Customer Relations to at least offer.

The stern look turned to a look of disgust. "That's not enough!" she spat as she thrust the rug back on the shelf. "You only offer me ten percent after you tell me the rug was on sale!"

But ma'am, I didn't say that it...

"That's why I don't have an account here! You people do this all the time...!"

My shields went down. Hard. Ordinarily, my customer service training would've allowed me to simply stand there and let the old bag rant while I simply smiled, nodded and repeated store policy until she shut up and stalked off. But I didn't want to be there in the first place. I didn't want to be making a pittance listening to some rogue 70-year old who should've had the good sense to die fifty years ago harangue me about a situation I had no knowledge or control over, all to get a few lousy bucks knocked off the price of a rug she could've just as easily bought from a half-dozen other stores in the immediate area for half the price. I wanted to be making far more money farther away in a far cooler town with far smarter people. Yet here I was, having to stand there and be verbally lashed by some old twit with more money than sense. Probably harrassed her husband into giving her that money; poor guy probably gave it to her so she'd go away and leave him alone to have a glass of beer in peace.

Then I felt it. Sensing a disturbed psyche, the Beast came shambling out of his corner headed straight for my forebrain. But it wasn't me he was after this time. His focus was on Miss Stern as she went on about how she felt cheated and how store policies were dishonest and how the Universe In General Seemed To Be Created To Pick On Poor Little Old Ladies...

She really needs to shut up.

"...and there's no reason to have a sale sign up there if it's not on sale, right?"

My responses by this point were flat and monosyllabic. "Yes, ma'am."

You stupid piece of [expletive]*!"

"Then why in the world would there be a sale sign if it's not..."

"I don't know, ma'am."

I'd love to smack your ugly face lopsided, you withered [expletive]!

By this point, the Beast was being granted full reign. He was getting bigger by the second. He was currently the size of T Rex and growing. Claws scraped dangerously on the walls of my psyche. His spines scrawled across the ceiling of my emotions. His growls as he anticipated finally letting loose on someone were horrible to behold.

Miss Stern had no idea how close she was to a Major Incident.

"...and talk to the Corporate Office..."

I'll break your arms, piledrive you through the floor and twist your back until it snaps like a dry twig!

Bring it!

That last was me. The Beast was in full control now.

You'll be fired for this.

I don't care. Let's do it!

My gaze, which had been trained on one of the upper-level store fixtures in a final Customer Service technique to try and let Miss Stern's stupidity roll off my back snapped onto her old, tired face. The Beast, by now Godzilla-sized, bared his claws and fangs, eagerly ready to pounce. I had everything locked and loaded. Questions about her ancestry and intellectual level. Insults about her, her family, her upbringing and how she made her money. Jibes about her age and her lack of beauty. Inquiries as to why she had lived through three major military conflicts without becoming a casualty. Yes, even the Race Card**.

I opened my mouth to begin the salvo...

"Ma'am, that sign is there because someone here at the store made a mistake."

A co-worker of mine, who unbeknownst to me had been working in the aisle just behind us and who no doubt heard the entire exchange, had stepped in just in time. As she took over the conversation, I had a moment to hail another co-worker who was passing by. I told him to go get the manager. The look on my face must've been fearsome because he went scampering off at double speed.

Meanwhile, the girl who had stepped in for me was doing an admirable job of defending store policy against Miss Stern. The Beast deflated back into his corner, a little disappointed that his full fury wouldn't be needed after all. A few more seconds of explanation, and Miss Stern finally gave up, storming off in a huff.

Good riddance.

Although I still wanted to give her that piledriver.

The manager showed up a few seconds later. I gave her the 25-words-or-less version of what happened and let her know in no uncertain terms that I was within two seconds of letting that old bag have it, and I didn't care if I'd gotten fired for cussing out a customer. I let the co-worker who'd stepped in know that I was grateful to her for her help, and that I'd been close to losing it. She said I'd actually handled the situation calmly, but had stepped in because she'd wondered, as she heard the event unfold, if I were suddenly going to start yelling at the old lady. I told her that yes, I was but she'd stopped me in the nick of time.

The Beast wasn't done yet, however. For the rest of the afternoon, I was treated to fantasies of actually doing violence to that old lady and her husband too, if he dared to show trying to do the manly thing and defend his wife. Luckily, it was all in my head. Can't get arrested for fantasizing about it. Yet.

And wouldn't you know most of those fantasies involved piledrivers, powerbombs and other painful-looking wrestling moves.

-----------------------
*In the interest of not corrupting impressionable young minds that might be reading this (not to mention all the IHN volunteers in the various churches around here, I'll keep things clean. But you know what was running through my mind at that point.

**An indication of just how the situation had deteriorated, if I was even for a moment contemplating dredging up that uncharacteristic unpleasantness.

Observations in Pastel

2006-04-16T12:30:00.000-04:00

Easter Sunday today. Funny, I don't see any rabbits...

We had to be up and out extra early this morning so the pastor of Glenwood Presbyterian could get ready for Easter Sunday services. I've found that each church has its own unique features. Glenwood's is that it has the smallest congregation so far of all the churches we've visited, but seems to have the richest history. They've actually got a History Room where they keep copies of church records. The vast majority of them are handwritten meeting minutes filed in binders, but there are still fascinating glimpses of the church history almost from its inception in 1914. I turned to some of the entries from 1945 and the 1950s, but there was curiously no mention made of the end of WWII or the Korean War, respectively. I guess no one wanted to talk about it. Can't say I blame them. The room also has pictures of the way the church originally looked, pictures of the damage done by a fire in the middle part of the century, and the rebuilding effort. It looks much the same now as it did then. The room also sports the original altar bible that was rescued from the fire by a 17 year old member at the time, who risked the flames to do so.

It's called dedication, folks.

Glenwood Presbyterian is set in the Glenwood (duh!) community of Greensboro. Glenwood is one of the oldest neighborhoods in town, and the architecture of many of the houses reflects that. It is also one of the most ethnically and economically diverse neighborhoods in town. Unfortunately, the economic scale tends towards the lower end of the spectrum, and there is considerable criminal spillover from some of the rougher neighborhoods bordering it. Still, many sections of Glenwood are quiet, and there seem to be a lot of houses there that are either empty or for rent/sale. Maybe when this nightmare is over...

The other unusual thing about Glenwood Presbyterian is that we've had much more contact with the pastor this week than we've had with most of the other churches. We've met some of the other pastors, of course, but usually as they were stopping by briefly to have dinner with us or in some other official church capacity. Pastor Randy (as the kids call him) is one of the most hard-working, down-to-earth people we've ever had the pleasure of meeting. I made the suggestion to him this morning that the material in the History Room should be digitized, burned to disk, and a copy kept in a safe deposit box somewhere, in case there's another calamity that threatens the records. He seemed to like the idea; I only wish I could also have recommended a good scanning service. Some of those pages are kind of fragile; it's not simply a matter of laying them on a flatbed scanner and firing up a copy of Photoshop or OmniPage.

After we'd gotten back to the Day Center, I realized how tired I was. These early mornings are really starting to take their toll, but I couldn't rest yet. I still had to go for my Sunday paper. Gotta see who's hiring and for what, yessiree. Mike and Nessie had gotten Easter baskets from the members of Glenwood Presbyterian. Despite my best efforts, Mike had eaten half of his candy by the time we'd returned to the Day Center. My exhortations against eating candy for breakfast and warnings about poor dental health and the possible onset of diabetes fell on deaf ears. As usual.

Note to self: have no more kids. They tend to become teenagers...

I went and sat on the porch for awhile first to gather my strength. Besides, it was already hot inside, and there was a light breeze wafting by at the time. The sun was still early into its climb into the sky. Yet, there were people rriving for church across the way. Being still too tired to start my walk to the convenience store, I observed the congregants for a little while. All were dressed in their Sunday best, the women working the pastel angle because of Easter*. There were all ages, of course, ranging from a few babes in arms all the way up to wise old grandmothers. Most were couples or singles (with what seemed to be a few single parents), but there were a few families that were going in as well. I envied these, with the well-dressed father who owned his house and made good money doing a job he liked; the gorgeous mother who was totally devoted to her husband and family and no doubt had job skills of her own; and the scrubbed, well-behaved kids who never talked back to their parents and brought home straight As. The contrast against my own dysfunctional family was of course quite stark.

Crap! The Beast was stirring. Time to go. I abruptly got up from my chair and headed toward Fisher Park and the store beyond.

On the way I passed by the large houses I'd passed by last Sunday. I paid particular attention to one, built sort of in a faux Southwest Spanish style. The place was big (although not as big as the Professor's House), and again, I imagined what it would be like to live in a place like that.

Fah! You'll never have a place like that! What are you, 43? And you've done nothing with your wretched existence so far but land a low-wage job, get yourself evicted, fail your family and ruin any chance you've ever had to get ahead! Not to mention all the girls whose hearts you succeeded in breaking! Maybe you better move on before the people in that house have you arrested. Of course, that seems to be all you're good for...

Damn! The Beast was awake and in full form. I tried to throw my internal soundtrack at him, but it had been stuck on Alec Costandinos' "Judas Iscariot Suite" for several days now, in honor of Easter. And the Beast had long since built up an immunity to disco. To help combat him, I left the house at a double pace and headed down a set of steps into the park. At the bottom was a small stone bridge spanning a brook. It was quiet there -- environmentally and mentally -- so I sat down for a minute. Birds were singing all around, and I heard the frequent rustling of squirrels scurrying above in the branches and below through the underbrush on some inscrutable squirrel errands. I reached a set of steps that led down into the park and found near the bottom a small stone brisge over a creek. Sitting for a moment, I took in nature. A bird flitted up to a branch not far away and I recognized it as a gray titmouse. I didn't think any were around here. Of course, our state bird -- the cardinal -- was well represented, and there was no shortage or robins. Several were engaged in feathered flurries of combat to establish territory.

Feeling rested and Beast-free, I moved on. He chortled somewhere in the back of my mind, but seemed to content to simply ride along and observe. For the moment.

Reaching the store, I noticed a flyer taped to a glass door of an associated diner. Apparently there was to be a seminar oon Saturday run by two people who promised to take Biblical and corporate principles to help people discover how to make $50,000 in just a short time. The registration for the seminar was only $20; in fact the promotional blurb mentioned how the seminar leaders had used the last $20 they had to learn the techniques themselves. It wasn't lost on me that the flyer was taped to a business that sold state lottery tickets and I wondered if the odds of winning were any different.

On the way back I passed the Professor's House again. This time I noticed that a driveway I thought was associated with teh house next door actually wound around the back of the Professor's. I also noticed that there was a name on a brick post next to the driveway. I kind of wish I hadn't seen that; it took away some of the mystique of the place.

The rest of the walk was a blur as I focused on simply getting back to the Day Center, since by fatigue was returning. I got inside, sat down with my paper and have been battling sleep since.

And I still haven't seen any rabbits...

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*Aside to the single guys out there: some of the hottest women on Earth are in the churches. Pick a large church some Sunday morning and see for yourself...

Karyn, Saved

2006-04-14T11:44:00.000-04:00

I don't know what reminded me of it, but some years back, if you recall, there was a woman that, having run up over $20,000 in credit card debt, took to the Web to ask people to help bail her out of it. She got a lot of coverage in the media (where I first heard of her), and actually persuaded the Internet community to donate over $20,000 to pay off her credit cards. Save Karyn is still around. Her effort is being called one of the most successful Internet panhandling stories ever, and started the trend.

I've always envied and hated her at the same time. Envious that she could get people to give her $20,000 to help her with her needs, hated her because she could get people to give her $20,000 to help her with her needs.

For the record, I never donated to her cause. My reasoning at the time was that okay, she chose to run up a bunch of credit cards, didn't pay them off, and now, instead of filing for Chapter 7 or Chapter 13, she's crying for help. All she had to do is cut up her credit cards. Why should I help her?

Just replace some of the foregoing with the proper words, and you have a quick summary of my situation, nez pas? Matthew 7:1.

Still, although I'm in much worse shape, I never ever considered actively asking for money. As most of you know, I finally put a PayPal Donate button on the blog and set up Google Adsense, but only after many people had made it clear that they were willing to donate. Even so, I've made less than 2% of the amount of money Karyn has.

I gotta admit, it'd be nice. She set hers up so that everyone who visited her site donated a dollar. That's 20,000 visitors in 20 weeks. If I'm reading the data from Google Adsense right, I've had about 30,000 visitors in less than half the time. If I were to be gauche enough to ask for a dollar from everyone who read the blog, I'd be in my own house in no time.

The key words above, of course, are gauche enough.

Although I believe in taking any help that's offered (and thanks to all who choose to donate) I just don't think it's right to take advantage by assuming that people will donate, and framing the relationship accordingly. Sure, I could ask for everyone who visits to chip in a buck (or more), but then I'd be doing just what Karyn did and asking the community to subsidize my own bad judgment. Not to mention the fact that I'd be poisoning the relationship with all you readers (as if several indendiary posts haven't already done so).

Y'know, this might sound perverse, but if I had to choose, I'd rather have a circle of readers who didn't give me a dime, but who had found some sort of help and solace through the blog, than a legion of people who simply scanned the first few words of the latest post, and threw money at me without seeing what I and other homeless people go through.

But don't get me wrong; if Bill Gates or Warren Buffett wanted to write me a big check...

The Pendulum Principle

2006-04-14T09:32:00.000-04:00

Hmmm...meseems I haven't posted in a few days. Well, there're good reasons for it, but the drawback of having to play catch up is that my mind isn't the steel trap it used to be. Still, I'll give it a go, as the Brits would say...

Tuesday, 4/11...

The day passed slowly but uneventfully. The kids have been out of school all this week due to Spring break, so it's been a bit hectic at the Day Center. Mama had been burying herself in some of her books to keep from going insane while I pounded the pavement looking for work.

I returned to the Day Center about 3:30 and five minutes later was fielding a call from one of the agencies I'd sent a resume to the previous day, based in Winston*. They urgently needed help; would I be willing to come in the next morning? I usually like to give it a day or two to prepare, get my clothes ready and examine the logistics of getting there without a car. But I'm also not fool enough to turn graphic design work in a place where the guy also hinted that I could go full-time. So I quickly agreed. That fast agreement would come back to bite me...

Checking on the logistics that night at our host church, Glenwood Presbyterian, I found that I'd have to ride the 6:30am GTA bus running past the church to get downtown by 7:00, where I'd board the PART bus to be at the PART regional hub by 7:30, where I'd board the PART conneector that would have me in Winston by 8:00, where I'd board the WSTA bus that would take me to the office before 8:30, which is when they'd have me there.

Wednesday, 4/12...

Okay, now pay attention; this is where Murphy** decided to go to work with me...

I was up on time, on GTA on time, on the PART bus on time, at the Regional Hub on time...

Yep, that's where it went to hell.

A round trip to and from the office in Winston costs $8.00. I had on me roughly half that. I knew I'd have to get to an ATM at some point, but have you ever noticed that when you most need to tap an ATM, there are never any handy? We can't leave the church at night, so I couldn't find the nearest one there. I didn't have time to go hunting one in downtown Greensboro, so my earliest chance to hit an ATM would have to be once I got to the regional PART hub; there's a convenience store nearby that has one. I figured I'd be able to run over, tap my account and get back to the bus in time to get to Winston. Piece of cake.

As soon as I got off the bus, I rushed over to the convenience store and went looking for the ATM, which, for some reason, was tucked behind a stack of recklessly-placed soda pallets. Working quickly, I got my money and went to the counter to have it broken, since it was a case $20. A quick glance out the window told me that the Winston connector hadn't arrived yet. I went to the counter, grabbed a newspaper, asked the woman for a lottery ticket, grabbed my change, and headed back to the hub. I rounded the corner just in time to see the three PART buses, of which Winston's was one, pulling off!

Cursing my fate (and the fect that ATMs are always to doggone convenient till you need one) I sat down to wait for the next bus. I could still pull it off, if I took a taxi in Winston instead of waiting for the hourly bus. It'd be more expensive, but I figured I'd but the money back when I got paid. At least I had the want ads and a lottery ticket. The ticket wasn't a winner and the paper had no jobs I was quallified for, so I figured today would be One of Those Days.

Got to the job site on time and settled in. At least the work was good, if confusing, because they had to explain things in a hurry, but I put in a full day and was asked to come back the next day. That's always a promising sign.

Thursday, 4/13...

The routine of catching disparate buses was a little better today, although I arrived at the office 30 minutes late because I'd misread the WSTA bus schedule. They assured me that it was okay, however, since I was still on freelance status.

Still, you don't want to deviate too much from the office schedule. It looks bad.

Anyway, I'd not had time to pack a lunch, so I got to eat at one of the quaint restaurants nearby. It was small and sort of crowded, but I liked the cozyness of it. According to the sign outside, it originally used to be a carriage house, although it no longer really looks like one. I observed the other patrons there; they were mostly middle-aged and up, no doubt retirees out enjoying the warm weather. A couple of the younger set had laptops, including the girl at the table next to mine. I fought down the urge to peek.

After work, I entertained thoughts of bunning in Winston for a couple hours and taking a Greyhound bus back to Greensboro. Tempting though it was, I decided to just come on back and avoid getting in trouble.

I was very tired when I got to the church last night. I remember watching "Smallville" on the color TV downstairs, and then went upstairs to our room. By the time I got settled and changed into my bedclothes, it was nearly time for bed. I figured a little light reading would be in order, and stretched out on the bed with my book. Mike was on his bed sketching, Nessie was playing with the other children in the program, and Mama was playing the video game on my cell phone as usual. So with everyone in place, I opened my book...

...And was awakened by the most godawful commotion downstairs under our window. Glancing at the clock, I was shocked to realize I'd been asleep for over an hour and hadn't even realized it! The noise was the result of what sounded like a large group of teenagers. Raised, angry voices told me that it was probably due to gang activity or some other such foolishness. Somewhere in the shadows in the back of my mind, the Beast suggested that maybe it was a mob come to storm the church and burn it down. I swatted him across the nose with a few bars of Olivia Newton-John's "Magic" and sat upright in bed. Mama had already gone to the blinds to peer out for a look, before I could raise the possibility that whatever was going on downstairs could only end in gunshots. Grumpily, I fought down the impulse to go to the window myself and reached for the phone. I must really have been tired, because I only vaguely remember dialing 911 and telling the dispatcher that there was a disturbance at the church and gave the address. Things seemed to quiet down a few minutes later. I don't know if the ops ever showed up, because I think I went back to sleep very quickly.

Today...

I'm still a bit tired. Running between two cities and getting up at the crack of dawn seems to be taking its toll. Fortunately today is Good Friday. Not much is open or occurring, although I have a job interview later this evening at a place here in Greensboro. Probably I'll just spend most of today resting up. Have to be back in Winston Monday.

-------------------
*The official name of the city is Winston-Salem, so named in the early 20th Century when the neighboring cities of Winston and Salem merged (get it?) But most folks around here simply refer to it as "Winston".

**You do understand about Murphy's Law, don't you?

A Kingdom Transferred

2006-04-11T07:48:00.000-04:00

I've been meaning to post this for awhile, but never seemed to get around to it. Before I dash off to begin my daily whatnot, I want to mention the one member of our family that has managed to find a place to live.

Alexis was a domestic shorthair cat that had charmed her way into our hearts back in late 1995, when we went browsing in a new pet store. She resembled an oversized dust bunny when we bought her but it wasn't long before she'd filled out and taken her rightful place in Catdom.

I'd never been able to get a picture of her; she had this uncanny ability to know when a camera was trained on her and refuse to sit still for it. She somewhat resembled the cat on the Alpo cat food label. In fact, when Nessie was younger, she'd see the label in the store and insist that it was Alexis's picture on there. It took some doing to explain to her that no, it was another cat that just happened to look like Alexis.

Alexis turned out to be the cat with the longest tenure I'd ever owned. About three months old when we got her, she turned 9 in March of 2005. But she was still basically just a big kitten, always up for chasing a rolling ball or a wriggling string, or launching herself into impossibly high and largely inaccessible places. Her favorite spot was my knee, however, where she'd sit purring contentedly while I watched TV.

When wew got evicted, I had to scramble to find someplace for her to stay. I hurriedly put her up at a vet's office for a week until I could get plans in place. She hated traveling in her cat carrier, and probably wasn't too fond of the vet's office, either, since her shots had to be updated as a condition of her staying there, but we had no choice. The last we saw of her was when we said goodbye through the bars of the cat carrier. The lok on her face will haunt me the rest of my days.

This sad tale does have a happy ending, however. A week later, I called to try and make arrangements for the next week for Alexis' care and boarding and found out that the office manager for the vet had recently suffered the tragic death of her own cat. She'd seen Alexis and fell in love (apparently Alexis resembled her cat). She asked if she could adopt Alexis and I quickly agreed. One faxed copy of cat adoption papers later, and I'd finally done right by at least one member of my family.

We miss Alexis, of course, but at least we know she's in stable surroundings. I bet she doesn't mind one bit adding another household to her kingdom.

The Network

2006-04-11T07:12:00.000-04:00

Thanks to lucky for the Family Guy reference (didn't think I caught that, didja? I needed the laugh...) and the idea to start my own business to help get out of this mess. I've tried that before; trouble is, I admit I'm a lousy businessman and a worse salesman. Freelancing is sort of running your own business, but unless you can land a long-term contract (3+ months of steady work), the money/hours are very unstable. I like stable. Yeah, it's a little boring, but at least you know where and when the money's coming from and how much.

Still, I may get up the gumption to try it again at some point. There are classes at GTCC that show you how to get started, and navigate the gauntlet of Uncle Sam and The Governor.

As for why I'm waiting to write a book, I want to wait until all of this is over so I can name names if I have to without jeopardizing my present situation. Plus, time's at a premium these days.

Had lunch with two friends and former co-workers last Sunday. We had an excellent time, and the food was delicious. The conversation went wide, touching on a lot of topics; including, sadly, the fact that one of my friends had lost his job just a couple days prior. But here's the rub: he worked at a place that I'd longed to work for since it opened a couple years ago. But after hearing the things he told me about the place's dark underbelly, I don't ever want to set foot in there, let alone work for them*.

Hm, I guess networking does work. If for no other reason than to let you know where not to work.

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*And he wasn't just sour graping. This guy is very dedicated and good at his job. He just got under a bad boss, is all. The upshot is, he'll bounce back in no time because there's a surfeit of jobs in his field around here.

The Odds of Winning

2006-04-09T10:50:00.000-04:00

I played the State Lottery earlier. I didn't win; c'est la vie. But soft; a moment if you will while I put in my two cents on the lottery.

As many of you know, North Carolina is the last state on the East Coast to institute a lottery. This is due solely to the puritanical attitudes of all too many in our completely ineffectual state legislature. These prudes fought even the slightest notion of a state lottery for years citing a law written in the 1600s that supposedly forbade gambling.

This despite the fact that once Virginia and South Carolina started lotteries, North Carolinians streamed across the border to play.

This despite the fact that polls consistently showed that 70-75% of the state's adult population wanted a lottery.

This despite the fact that these are the same people that were always braying about how working people should be able to spend their money how they choose.

This pack of pusillanimous popinjays* fought the notion of the lottery for years with the same tired argument that "it'll hurt the poor." These are the same people that fight any notion of a raise in the state minimum raise with the same tired argument, coupled with the rejoinder that "it'll hurt business". Yet these are the same people that raised not one voice in protest when our vaunted state legislature rammed a statewide sales tax increase down our throats several years ago.

Funny, I don't recall hearing about how much the poor would be hurt then.

Naturally, politicians being what they are, they're not interested in the lowliest of their constituents. They're not concerned with the problems the poor and the homeless face every day, many of which are the fault of legislators trying to play God with the lives of those beneath them. So they very rarely do put in programs that actually help people. They simply let the local municipalites and the private sector do their jobs for them and then crow to the Folks Back Home about how effective a legislator they are and how they've raised so-and-so much money for their district and remember to re-elect Representative John Q. Porkbarrel this fall, y'hear? Thanky!

Of course, Rep. Porkbarrel doesn't live down here in the mud along with the rest of us. He's too busy drawing up blueprints for his mansion up on Mt. Olympus.

As someone who is actually poor, let me enlighten our Esteemed Legislature on a few things about us, in case any of them are actually reading this. Which I heartily doubt.

Poor people are not stupid. We understand that playing the lottery means going up against astronomical odds. We understand that most of the time, if we win anything at all, it'll be a niggling prize like 2 bucks or a free ticket. We understand that the money that is supposed to go for the power bill and the children's lunches isn't to be used on the lottery. We understand that there are those that have a compulsive gambling problem and have to be protected from themselves. We understand that there are moral grounds against playing the lottery. We understand that winning the lottery doesn't solve all our problems.

We understand all of this, and more.

But we also understand that even a slim chance of getting in on the good life is better than no chance at all, which is all the naysayers, fundamentalists and Rep. Porkbarrel can offer. We understand that winning will drive a stake in the heart of some of your most persistent financial problems**. (I always like to say money won't buy you happiness, but it puts a mighty dent in the sadness.) We understand that winning for a change, just once, is better than a string of morale-crushing defeats. We understand that winning gives us a shot at full participation in the American economy by reducing dependency on a broken social system. We understand that for some of us in the minority community, lottery winnings are the only real money we'll ever see in our lives. We understand that even modest lottery winnings can be a springboard to something better, if used properly. We understand that you can't win all the time.

We also understand that we're adults, and we can decide these things for ourselves.

I'm poor. I'm homeless. And I'll play that lottery as many times as I can. If I don't win, no big loss; I don't plan to blow a lot on lottery tickets. If I win, it'll be the happiest day I've had in recent memory.

And I'll finally get to go home.

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*With apologies to Dr. Smith

**The top prize in the state lottery is currently $100,000, with a chance to double it. What would I buy with $200,000? Hmmm...maybe a house? Maybe college for the kids, so they can get good educations and never, ever have to spend another day homeless as long as they live? Maybe finally pay off some old bills so I can put my credit back in order? Nah, that would be wasting all that money, now wouldn't it?

A Walk in the Park

2006-04-09T09:52:00.000-04:00

These Sunday morning trips to get the newspaper are becoming mini-odysseys. The lack of loaded paper racks and nearby open stores force me to walk a goodly distance to sang the latest want ads.

That's okay. It's good exercise and gives me time to reflect.

The drawback is that this morning is a lot cooler than it was yesterday. It's currently 39° F (just under 4° C, for you European readers). Not 24 hours ago, the temperature was nearly twice that*. Still, I threw on a jacket and headed out before I caould talk myself out of it.

On the way to the nearest convenience store (at least a mile walk) I passed by Anderson Baptist Church. I could hear the music all the way up the block. They had apparently gotten an early start on the day's worship service. There are several churches near Anderson that I didn't hear a peep out of. I don't know whether that was because they hadn't gotten in yet or they're just more sedate. The decibel level and the beat of the music also told me that Anderson apparently has a majority black congregation. How do I know this? I've heard black Gospel music all my life. I can pick it out anywhere.

Moving on, I passed by an absolutely gigantic Tudor-style mansion. We've passed it many times on our way from various churches to the Day Center in the mornings, but this time I had an opportunity to stop and get a good eyeful of the place. I think it's even bigger than the Day Center. Our old house in Northwest Greensboro would fit easily within its walls, possibly even within its living room. As I stood taking in the view from the sidewalk (nudge!) I easily imagined an owner of the home, maybe a tenured professor at one of the local colleges; an avuncular fellow with hair graying at the temples, wearing a tweed jacket with the patches on the elbows and clenching a pipe stem between his teeth. "Morning," he'd say, appearing at the door. You're the fellow who writes the blog, aren't you? C'mon in and have some coffee and let's see if we can't find you a job somewhere."

Then I woke up. It's 2006, for Pete's sake. Time to shake the Leave It To Beaver reveries and move on. Besides, there are some who would consider me...out of place in this neighborhood. Bes to keep moving.

Y'know, it's a sad commentary on my life that I imagined someone else at the door of that house and not myself. Maybe I'm just getting used to not having anything of my own.

A few more minutes' walk brought me to the convenience store. I picked up a Sunday paper and heard a song with a disco beat coming over the store speakers. Unfortunately, it wasn't loud enough for me to pick up from where I was standing, but by the time I'd manuevered myself under the speaker, the song had gone off. Shrugging my shoulders, I headed for the counter to pay for my paper and saw tickets for the new North Carolina Lottery. I hadn't formally played yet in that I hadn't yet spent any money on it, although I have played. Last week, on my way to an interview, I found eight unscratched tickets on the ground that someone must have dropped running for the bus. One of them won $2.00. A piddling amount, but not a bad profit insofar as I had won with a free ticket. Today, however, I didn't win. Que sera sera; I only spent $2.00 for two tickets and got another two tickets with the winning $2.00 ticket I had. 1/3 of the 2 bucks I spent will be going toward educational purposes, so all in all, it wasn't a bad thing.

Leaving the store, I decided to head back the way I came instead of taking a circuituous route. It had gotten a little quieter in Fisher Park as I moved through it. Off in the near distance, I heard the machine-gun staccato of a woodpecker drilling for his breakfast. I tried to get a look at him, but couldn't pinpoint where the sound came from. I passed by the Professor's House again*, getting another look at it. I didn't linger as long this time, however, although I did try to imagine walking in that front door. Without subsequently sporting a shiny new pair of handcuffs, that is. Or carrying a mop and pail.

My attention was distracted by a squirrel scurrying across the street to avoid an oncoming car. Yes, Greensboro has no shortage of squirrels, but this one was carrying something in its mouth. I couldn't tell what it was, but I could tell it wasn't a nut. I couldn't get a good look as the squirrel kept in the move and scampered up the nearest tree, no doubt ensuring that my sudden attention to his business wouldn't interfere with his own.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw something dodge another car and blur up a set of steps not far away. A few paces brought me to the place where I could see what it was. A gorgeous black and white cat had parked herself under a small bush. She seemed friendly and even approached when I called her, but she never came near enough to allow me to scratch her behind the ears. After a moment, she bounded off in the direction of a nearby house, and I continued on.

Approaching the home stretch, I saw that Anderson Baptist had now grown quiet, no doubt having moved into the sermon portion of their service, but churchgoers were beginning to arrive in force at First Presbyterian, one of the city's largest and most distinctive churches, being built in a gothic style. In fact, for many years, I assumed it was a Catholic cathedral, as it shares many of the same design features.

Mama and Nessie had left for church by the time I got back to the Day Center, and the place has grown a bit quiet. Maybe after I post a few times, I'll stretch out somewhere with my paper and see who to hit up for work this week.

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*As I guess I'll now refer to it as. I don't know who actually owns that gigantic dwelling, but I envy them. A lot.

The Incredible Someone Else

2006-04-08T13:04:00.000-04:00

The homeless (and by extension, the poor) face a thousand little frustrations every day, and most of the time, these manage to coagulate themselves into one huge frustration by the end of the day. One of the biggest, most looming frustrations is trying to find work that will pay enough to allow you to finally escape homelessness.

Over the past three years I've sent out literally hundreds of resumes and been on dozens of interviews and have yet to garner anything more lucrative than a couple of part time gigs that didn't pay the bills. Okay, part of that is my own fault -- I spent too much time focused on trying to get back into the graphic design field and not enough time trying to get into Guilford Tech or some comparable insititution -- but a lot of the time it's just plain old (a) bad luck; (b) bad timing; (c) ruthless competition; (d) age discrimination (e) racism*; (f) all of the above; (g) some horrendous combination of the above.

I found out yesterday that a very lucrative job I'd interviewed for in Winston-Salem went to Someone Else. Again. I did everything right in that interview. I watched my hygeine and body language. I made sure to give a firm handshake and look anyone that greeted me in the eye with a smile. I made sure to pay close attention to what was said and any instructions I was given. I researched the company beforehand and prepared several questions to ask during the interview, and got to ask them. I didn't use "er", "uh", and "well..." when answering questions. I wrote thank you notes to everyone I talked to, and I followed up diligently afterward.

And the blasted job still went to Someone Else.

Meanwhile, I'm still stuck in retail. Part-time.

Someone Else has a helluva life, neh? Someone Else always gets the good job. Someone Else always has the cool car. Someone Else has the good education. Someone Else has a spouse with a BMI of 19. Someone Else has overachiever kids who make straight As. Someone Else has the big house with the basement rec room.

Maybe it's the Beast stirring in me, but I really wish that Someone Else would lose out on a good lob for a change. I'd like to see Someone Else have to deal with a snotty social worker who uses program rules like a battering ram. I want Someone Else to have to worry about tomorrow.

I want Someone Else to be me for awhile.

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*Please do not haul out the tired old argument that racism no longer exists in America. Yes it does; it's just far more subtle and insidious than it was in previous decades.

First, Do No Harm

2006-04-07T10:59:00.000-04:00

Apologies in advance to chosen fast, who will no doubt disagree with me big time on this view, Michael here in the city, whose sister is studying for her BSW, and to any social workers out there who Get It. This will be a rant, but always remember, Gentle Reader, YMMV*.

On April 4, Ashley Clocher's Letter to the Editor posted in the News & Record. I nearly fell out of my chair laughing when I read it. But take a look for yourself first before we move to the discussion. Her letter is here.

For the record, I despise social workers.

I know that's a harsh generalism. I'm sure there are many out there that are dedicated, selfless, and bend over backward to help their clients get the help they need. The social workers assigned to the various area schools seem to be okay, if largely ineffectual; and the former social workers for GIHN seem to be, according to the people we've talked to, salt of the earth.

Unfortunately, I've been on the business end of far too many of the bad ones. And the resulting encounters have, admittedly, colored my perceptions of them.

Still, as my workshop leader was fond of saying: "It is what it is."

The social workers I've encountered are far too busy looking down their nose at the people sitting across the desk from them. The ones I've had the misfortune to have to deal with are simply taking up office space waiting for another paycheck all the while treating their clients -- the ones they're supposed to be helping -- with a protracted disdain most of us reserve for street dogs. The ones I've had to endure are often just going through several motions -- not the least of which is simply to keep clients bottled up for hours filling out forms, answering intrusive questions and enduring a roomful of kids whose parents refuse to discipline them only to be told that "we can't help you." With no explanation forthcoming.

We've had to deal with social workers who worked overtime answering a spurious charge of child endangerment and threatening to take Nessie away, only to find out subsequently that the charge was baseless (something we'd told them all along). We've had to endure social workers who put the word of a child over ours when said child decided that I'd be better off in jail and thus made up a lie that I'd molested her. Another charge that was found to be baseless**. We've had to suffer through the depredations of a Medicaid social worker who decided to punish me for not putting a stack of documentation directly in her hand (3) by cutting off our Medicaid and getting into a verbal battle over the phone. We've had to dread dealing with a social worker who insisted on treating us like addled kindergartners, although Mama and I are much older. And then there's the seemingly endless parade of social workers who simply sit and watch you snobbishly through the fog of a jaundiced zeitgeist while taking copious notes on your family's situation -- including how much money is in your poscket and why it's there (4) -- knowing that there's no way they plan to help you.

If I may quote Ashley's letter:

Why is there such a stigma with social workers? We do some of the best work in
this country and get little or no recognition. People react negatively when you
are out on a visit or even meet them in a hospital setting. They think you are
there to take their children or do something else that will bring harm to their
families.

Because in my experience, my dear, nine times out of ten, that social worker is there to take your children or do some sort of harm to their family. We've had to deal with one one night at Cone Hospital that was there for just that reason, when one of the children (I forget which one) had fallen and was hurt enough that I thought a doctor should have been involved. Turns out it was much ado about nothing, but we learned a lesson that night. Now if the hospital staff asks if we'd like to speak with the social worker, we give an emphatic "no!"

I don't know what sort of training most social workers receive, but much of it seems to involve learning just the right way to strip you of any vestige of your self-esteem; make you feel as though your skulll wasn't occupied by any brain cells whatsoever and make you wonder what's wrong with you; all while keeping you totally dependent on a system that, if not actively murderous, seems to take great interest in wanting to see you down, out and deceased. And making you think all the while that there's light at the end of the tunnel, when really that's just the headlamp of the shinkansen.

I hope I meet one of those selfless, dedicated social workers one day. I'd love to shake the hand of someone who truly Gets It. In the meantime, Ashley, I understand the prickliness of choosing a profession that most people scorn and think you're nuts for doing so. But at the same time, perhaps the Hippocratic Oath applies here as well.

First, Do No Harm.

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*Your Mileage May Vary, for those not up on chatroom shorthand, It's just a quickie way of saying this is me callin' 'em as I sees 'em.

**Thank God for Detective Washington of the GPD (since retired) who was the only one who didn't believe that cockeyed story for a minute and set out to get the proof. And she did.

(3) Even though in the lobby there sits a large mailbox with a timeclock attached. The proper procedure is to insert the information in a provided envelope, put our identifying information on it along with the employee number of the social worker, stamp the envelope, and drop it in the box. Unfortunately, this chick was apparently too lazy to get off her fat rear and go down to the mailroom to retrieve her mail.

Fetch Me Out That Doodle-Do!

2006-04-07T10:52:00.000-04:00

Our host church this week has been Fellowship Presbyterian. Fellowship is much more low-key than most of the other churches we've been guests of so far, with not a lot of comings and goings. This may, however, just be a slow week for them, since Easter is not for about two weeks.

Fellowship has two co-churches that share space with them but have different services and times. I don't know how that works out logistically. It must drive the schedulers crazy.

They also have a pet rooster that patrols the grounds, but I've yet to see him. Everyone else has seen "Earl", and I've heard him crowing in the woods each morning when we're loading into the van, but I've yet to actually lay eyes on him. If it weren't for the fact that I hear him crowing in the morning, I'd chalk his existence up to just a prank the others are playing. I haven't gotten around yet to asking why a city church has a chicken patrolling the grounds; There's probably an interesting story in there somewhere.

Update: I finally saw Earl the other day. He was standing regally under the front door canopy out of the rain. He's one of the biggest roosters I've ever seen. I'd been wondering before then if he ever had to worry about any of the area hawks, but seeing him now, I'd have to say I'd feel sorry for any hawk that was stupid enough to try it.

I'm Still Standing*

2006-04-05T09:09:00.000-04:00

"So is this the way you thought your life would end up?"

It was an innocent enough question, and since it came in a nonthreatening environment (work) during the course of routine duties (work), I just as innocently answered it.

"No."

Too late did I realize that it was the Beast that had asked the question. The whole thing was just another ploy to fling wide the gates of my tortured psyche. And fling they did. The Beast lost no time dredging up every inadequacy, regret, failure and shortcoming I'd ever experienced, sharpening them to razor-sharp points and hurling them at my emotional core. I fought back, bolstering my shields with the advice given me by trula, susan, parched earth opals, chosen fast, or, lucky and other commenters.

I'm sorry, guys. He went straight through those shields like tissue paper.

The struggle went on for hours, and was made worse by the fact that every soccer mom and office dad in Greensboro chose that day to come wandering into the store looking for the latest whatnots and gewgaws to drop money on. Kinda hard to battle the Beast when you've got to select a smile, put it on, and make the customer feel that they're the most important person in the world at that moment. At least it is for me because I tend to wear my emotions on my sleeve.

Lunchtime was a blur as I spent most of it trying to put down the Beast's latest incursion. He'd used the intervals of my having to deal with customers to good advantage; now he was bringing up regrets from my old high school days. The girls I made cry through my immaturity. The grades I would've gotten had I not been too busy trying to be popular. The friends I lost, and the enemies I gained. The loves I lost and the fights I lost worse. The time I wasted. The things I said and did that are by now too late to take back and make amends for.

About midafternoon, I was wavering under the onslaught and thinking that a tall, frosty glass of Drano would just about hit the spot when I heard it.

Coming over the store speakers.

The first strains of Elton John's "I'm Still Standing"!

God, I needed that! I latched on tight, and sang along with the track, something I typically don't do because I can't carry a tune in a bucket, but I didn't care. I needed something to lash the Beast with, and that fit the bill nicely. Fotunately, no one needed to page anyone right then.

It took until about halfway through the song, but the Beast finally fled howling back into his corner. It was over, for the nonce, and I had won. Just.

I've really got to find time to see a good shrink...

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*With apologies to Sir Elton.

The Other Side of the Glass

2006-04-05T08:56:00.000-04:00

Some days I know exactly how Tantalus felt.

Tantalus was, of course, the figure in Greek myth wo offended the gods* and was thus punished to spend eternity standing in a pool of water underneath a tree full of fruit. Whenever he'd try to satisfy his hunger or thirst, the water would drain away at his approach and the tree branches would move just out of reach. Tantalus' name is where we get our modern word "tantalize"**.

Riding the bus affords me the opportunity, for good or ill, to gaze out the window at a life that always seems just out of reach: a coffeeshop we used to frequent. A grocery store where we used to buy our food. The store where the boys would rent their video games. The playground where Nessies liked to hang upside down on the jungle gym. The shop where Mama would buy her herbal teas.

And not just figments of the life we once lived, either, but the one we'd like to experience: The mansions with the immaculately cared-for lawns. The sleek new vehicles lined up for prospective buyers. The gleaming office buildings where the high-paying jobs are. The scrubbed private schools with their track records for providing good educations. The happy, smiling couples on their way to some exotic, exciting locale.

All just out of reach. Close enough to be just on the other side of the glass, perhaps a fingerprint away. Far enough away to be blurred by the persistent fog of envy.

-------------------
*Of course, from my reading of Greek mythology, ticking off Zeus and company was like shooting fish in a barrel. I don't know how the universe in those stories survived.

**And for you fellow Trekkers, Tantalus was also the name of one of the Federation's prison planets.

Parry, Riposte!

2006-04-02T14:09:00.000-04:00

I was in motion all day Friday, which was pretty good considering I was running on little sleep and recovering from a hay fever attack I'd suffered the evening before. I had two job interviews, one in Greensboro, the other in Winston-Salem. I couldn't reschedule one, especially since I don't get too many interviews these days. I also don;t yet have a car, so it took some very careful planning on my part.

But I did it.

I think they both went well. Both interviews seemed positive, but again, I've learned not to count the paycheck before the tax forms are signed. Still, I'm glad I took that workshop at Guilford JobLink. I remembered a bunch of tactics that I employed during my interview in Winston, which was with a very large firm (operations in four states).

Some interview tactics are just common sense: treat everyone you run into at the company with respect, not just the interviewer; prepare your answers ahead of time, especially questions concerning your employment history and your future goals; research your target company as thoroughly as you have time and brain capacity for -- you never know what topics will come up; and show through your voice and body language that you want the job (which I did). I caught myself slouching a couple times, not out of disinterest, but because of fatigue. But I corrected the situation quickly, straightening up in the chair and keeping my gaze firmly locked on my interviewer.

Some interviews adminster a test of your abilities. Make sure you follow all instructions to the letter, even if you've done it a million times before or the instructions seem silly. And don't be afraid to ask questions. I try to prepare at least three questions in advance to ask the interviewer. This seems to impress them and make them take your application more seriously.

In fact, here's another piece of advice I'll pass along from my workshop. The most powerful question you can ask the interviewer is: "Would you describe for me your ideal candidate?" Then listen closely to the answer, because what you'll do then is become that candidate. For example, if the interviewer responds with "My ideal candidate is someone who is well-versed in Microsoft Word, can quickly learn our proprietary software, and can stay overtime if needed during the week," you'll reply: "You know, in my last job, I used Microsoft Word on a daily basis to produce correspondence. I had to learn how to run several auxiliary programs very quickly when our Office Manager was out sick, and I almost always stay until the work is complete, even if that means I'm still at my desk when everyone else has gone home*." What have you just told the interviewer? You've told her that you have a mastery of their preferred software, that you can pick up other skills quickly so that you'll be even more useful, and that you put dedication and productivity ahead of the nine-to-five. Even if you don't get the job, you definitely go on the short list to get called in in case the person they hire walks out in front of a truck (hey, you never know...) I've already landed on two short lists doing that.

In fact, if you think about it, the entire interview is nothing but a series of parries and ripostes. Just make sure your parries and ripostes land without throwing you off balance.

-----------------------------
*Obviously, your answers will vary. Just make sure your crafting yours to the reply you get from the interviewer, plugging in your experience and skills where needed. And tell the truth while you do it. But you knew that...

Traces of Home

2006-04-02T13:32:00.000-04:00

We just completed our week at Mt. Zion Baptist Church. This church is unusual in two ways: one, it's the largest church -- physically and in membership -- in Greensboro, and second, it's the only predominantly black* church currently participating in the Interfaith network in Greensboro.

The first twenty-four hours of any of our church assignments is always a "feeling out" period; just like when you first get hired on or you join an organization for the first time. You want to make sure all your ducks are in a row and that the organization, well, feels right. With Mt. Zion, this process only took a bare few hours. Even setting aside the fact that we're also black, it just felt more comfortable at Mt. Zion more quickly. It also helped that the members, which included members of the Good Samaritan Ministries, went out of their way to make us feel welcome.

The first night at dinner told the tale. At all the other churches we've been guests of, dinnertime was definitely a friendly affair, with good food and good company. But dinner at Mt. Zion was different in that it felt more like a family reunion. It's a difficult feeling to describe; We knew this wasn't "home", and the members weren't "family" in the strictest sense, yet it felt like it. I don't know if that description (admittedly it's a weak one) makes sense to someone that's never been to a family reunion.

Typically, such affairs are quite boisterous, where young and old alike swap viewpoints and experiences. Any and all topics are broached, as long as it's done in good taste and humor. And all of it is done around large bites of some of the best homecooked food. I know this describes the same experience as people of all ethnicities take part in; it's just...different.

Nessie had her time in the spotlight the night before last. She brought her violin home from school (as she does every weekend) and her guitar that she got last Christmas. She gave an impromptu performance that the members all seemed to enjoy. I believe she was even invited to perform at the church this morning.

The subject of the blog came up last night when we were all in the Common Room welcoming a new family into the network. Several members seemed thrilled to finally meet the "Mama" they'd read so much about. To her surprise, none of them seemed to mind that she practiced yoga, a source of anxiety for her up until last night.

Mama and Nessie spoke very highly of Mt. Zion. I think the church may have gained two more members.

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*I don't much care for the term "African-American". First of all, although genetically I share similarities with the denizens of the sub-saharan African continent, I've never been to Africa in my life. Nor do I have any desire to go. Second, if the anthroplogists are correct, we all share an African ancestry becuase that's where Earth's first humans appeared. Third, "African-American" seems too stilted for me. It just smacks of an artificial attempt to be overly polite. I'm black. It's okay to call me that. Actually, I've lived long enough to be many things: "colored", "Negro", "Afro-American", "urban", "African-American", and of course the loathsome "N-word". At the end of the day, they're just words.

Pay No Attention to the Man Behind the Curtain

2006-03-30T17:30:00.000-05:00

There are things that go on behind the scenes every day that I'm dying to tell everyone about, but for various reasons, I can't. What you read here is maybe half of what actually transpires on any given day. Sometimes less.

Usually the reason I can't spill the beans is because doing so would violate some level of confidentiality, either implicit or explicit. For example, astute readers will notice that I keep names out of the blog as often as I can, with the exception of my immediate family and public figures. Also, there are several projects I'm working on that require tight lips until they're complete. I'll also keep my little mouth shut because I don't want to screw up interviews; I don't divulge the companies involved because that might adversely impact my chances of getting hired*. Sometimes keeping quiet avoids or reduces conflict, legal or otherwise. And sometimes, as we say in the South, dear readers: " 'tain't none a' yer business**!"

It's actually a feat for me to even be putting my thoughts out here like this, becuase the people that know me will invariably describe me as a very private person. But I'm told from many quarters that my doing so is actually helping, so I'll keep on keepin' on.

There have been many that have suggested I write a book when this is all over. Not a bad idea. Maybe even by then I'll be able to divulge some of what went on backstage at the time. Those are stories that need to be told.

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*More and more companies are actively monitoring bloggers and their blogs. Several high-profile firings have occurred as a result of some bloggers venting everything negative about their jobs/bosses/companies. Other companies, in their background checks, Google candidates' names to see what pops up. I know for a fact mine gets several hits now, so I have to watch my p's and q's.

**There are bloggers that put their sex lives out there for the world to see, among more personal matters. I'm no prude, but I ain't a porn star either. I like...er, intimate relations just that: intimate.

Taken Wing

2006-03-28T16:27:00.000-05:00

They're gone.

The birds outside our window have disappeared. Mother Dove had just hatched her babies, too. At least the other day I saw a little fuzzy brownish-gray head peeking out from under her wing. But when I went to check on them the next day, they were gone.

I looked around the ground under the A/C unit, thinking that maybe the babies had fallen out of the nest and Mom had simply left, knowing she couldn't help, but I saw no little bodies in the grass. I guess a hawk might have gotten the lot of them; we have several red-tailed hawks around here*.

Too bad; watching the babies grow up would have been an interesting science project for the kids.

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*There was one near our old place I used to call "Shayera" (you comics fans will catch the reference). Anyway, I saw a flock of ravens divebombing her one day while she was out for a fly, minding her own business. I didn't think ravens had those sort of cojones.

The Polaris Imperative

2006-03-28T16:11:00.000-05:00

Several of you have suggested that I move up north in order to find work and generally put our lives back in order. While I appreciate the suggestions, well...brrr!

It's cold up there!

I know it gets warm in summer, but winters up in Minneapolis, Pittsburgh or Waukesha are a tad brutal for my taste. North Carolina has its flaws -- a lot of them -- but it stays warm. Mostly.

Now, I'm not averse to working up north; in fact, before the...ahem...Late Unpleasantness, I was exploring ways to make that work. We had a neighbor back at our old place (very nice man) that worked in New York City but lived in Greensboro. He'd commute to NYC, stay up there for six or eight weeks, then come back here to stay for a week or two with his wife. He kept it up for about 20 years until he retired last year. Wore out many a car doing it, but I know he made a pile of money.

Of course, he didn't have kids, and as any parent out there worth their diaper pails can tell you, you don't want to get too far from your kids. Still, graphic designers in NYC make about twice what they do down here. If you can handle the competition, that is, which I imagine is beyond fierce.

Still...there's gotta be a way to make that happen...

Mark of the Beast

2006-03-28T07:42:00.000-05:00

It's. Driving. Me. Crazy!

Searching for a meaningful job in a field that I love is like being being led into the Playboy Mansion bound and blindfolded. I'll probably bump into something I like a lot, but there isn't a damn thing I can do about it.

Just spent the past hour or so traveling the web trying to find work as a designer. The Triad area is blessed with a surfeit of design firms, yet none seem to be hiring. Of course, all their websites have photos of their creative teams: hip young professionals smiling, having fun and reveling in the fact that they're getting to do something that I'd give my eyeteeth to do. A few days from now, I'm sure I'll find out that someone just got hired on at So-and-So Agency and he loves it, or Suzy So-and-So just opened her own agency and hired a bunch of people. But that does me no good after the fact, now does it?

Maybe they're not so much smiling as gloating. At me. "Lookee at the job we get to go to every day. What's that you're into -- retail? (Cue derisive, uncontrollable guffawing)

Yes, yes, I know the old dictum of 80% of all available jobs not being advertised, and I plan to go to the library later to see what I can shake out of the bushes, but over the past three years, I've shaken a lot of bushes, trees, hedges, thickets, fens and flowerpots. All I've gotten is chlorophyll stains and something on my hands that smells suspiciously like...ewww! Still, I send out resumes and follow up as best I can. Resumes I send out cold are never seen or heard from again, and resumes I send as a result of a job posting end up in competition with those same hip, young, smiling professionals that end up doing what I'd love to do, while I'm on the outside looking in. Again.

Meanwhile, I'm being pressed from all sides to "Take a job. Any job." I've lost count of the times I've been admonished that I may have to "go outside your field." Just yesterday, It was suggested to me that I take a job as a car salesman*. I've finally learned the art of not giving people that tell me I may have to go outside my field the death stare. I realized long ago that I'd have to "go outside my field." Hell, I seem to be getting forced out of it. The fact remains, though, that in order to afford a permanent place to live, I've got to make more than minimum wage; or failing that, the job has got to allow room for growth and improvement. Naturally, it's got to be something I'm qualified to do.

I also keep hearing "keep trying," "don't give up," or variants of that saw. But some days... I just want to know how many times I have to beat my head against the wall before I get to stop.

Meanwhile, I see those smiling faces on the websites and imagine those carefree lives, those cool creative jobs and the cameraderie that comes with working with equals and I get frustrated all over again.

Frustration. Hm. Seems the Beast has found a new weapon.

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*A car salesman?! I was going to comment on that here, but my feelings about car salesmen would take an entire post, plus. Let's just say I'd make an astonishingly lousy one and leave it at that. Car salesman. Sheesh!

Shame

2006-03-26T10:58:00.000-05:00

I am ashamed.

I don't spend enough time looking up from what I'm doing to see what else is going on, and I should be.

First, Cara Michele has corrected me (very quickly, I might add; you go, girl!) and let me know that she has linked to Colby Smith's obituary, complete with a picture. You can find it in the Comments to "Just Desserts".

I realize that I don't recognize him now, but I probably passed him a million times and took no notice of him back then. If he was at UNCG in the '80s, I might even have bumped into him once or twice there, too.

Small world.

Anyway, looking at the list of organizations he'd joined on behalf of the homeless, it made me think of how little I've done. Maybe gerard v was right; maybe I haven't actually done a damn thing for the homeless, other than type this blog, which frankly, anybody can do.

(Hmm, perhaps I'd better finish this quickly; I feel the Beast stirring in the back.)

Second, I'm also ashamed on a visual level. Cara's blog is so much more...vibrant...than mine. And I'm supposed to be a Graphic Designer! The trouble is, the design for this blog is so well known now, I'm afraid to change it.

Third, I'm ashamed that I haven't sufficiently acknowledged the fact that there are others out there who are just as homeless, and just as quick to articulate their day-to-days in their own blogs. I seem to recall reading somewhere as well that up North there is a group of homeless men that publish a weekly newspaper. I'll try to find the information on that again and pass it along.

At least the third thing I can do something about. Cara's blog links to several other homelessness blogs. Through one of those links, I came in contact with the Homeless Blog Webring. You may have noticed the set of links to the left; these are links to other sites within the ring. I've checked some of them out -- apparently Canada and England are struggling with the problem on the same scale as we are. I've linked View From the Sidewalk there myself, but I don't think the link will be active for a few days yet.

Anyway, what all this haas taught me is that I need to get crackin'. Maybe later, though. First I've gotta get the Beast back to sleep.

Points of View

2006-03-26T10:22:00.000-05:00

I think there's a homeless person working on staff at the News & Record.

There must be, because the paper has focused a lot of attention on homeless issues of late, including Yours Truly's blog.

While linking to the article about Colby Smith (see previous post), I found this, a Homelessness Simulation run by Guilford College.

GC gets it; they are very outspoken about social conditions and justice. For them to even pay attention to the plight of the homeless is a huge feather in their cap. I think the only other college around here that speaks to homelessness is UNCG, occasionally*.

I wish I'd known about this simulation beforehand; I could've given them some firsthand accounts about the difficulty we face in trying to get that initial help. Still, it's good to see that these students are learning something about it. They may come out of the experience a little wiser, a little more compassionate, a little more willing to accept that not everything is as it seems. maybe those of them who go on to social work will remember this little exercise when facing that newly-homeless family across that desk.

I'll go even further: I'll say that anyone contemplating a career in social work should be required to undergo the same travails as the families they purport to help, just so they can have a genuine sense of empathy for them. even if those travails are artifically created, like GC's Homelessness Simulator. They should have to undergo losing their home, watching income dwindle to nothing while the bills mount, having to choose between heat, food and medicine for a child or elderly parent, and other such things as the rest of us have to do, day in and day out. Maybe some of them will be a little less haughty and will work a little harder to make sure that poor families get what they need.

But again, it's good to see that the students are looking at the flip side of the coin for a change. Maybe it ought to be a required project at all colleges.
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*An aside: some weweks ago, I was on the UNCG campus, where I attended back in the age of dinosaurs, to look into finishing my degree. Of course, I had become homeless since then. I felt like I was an intruder there. And I still never got the information I was seeking.

Just Desserts

2006-03-26T09:52:00.000-05:00

Colby Smith departed this vale of tears on March 17, 2006.

I didn't know Mr. Smith personally, but according to the News & Record article about him, he had become a tireless advocate for the homeless after himself enduring that state for five years.

Judging by the comments from some in the community who work with or advocate for the homeless, Mr. Smith was apparently a well-known figure who wasn't afraid to speak up with ideas on how to help the homeless. No photo accompanied the article, but I wouldn't be too surprised to find out that perhaps I'd passed him on the streets several times during those heady days when I thought I was doing well.

Mr. Smith is gone now, and he got what he deserved.

("What?! How horrible! What a terrible thing to say! He's lost his mind!")

Ah, but let me finish...

Mr. Smith deserved to escape the grip of homelessness with his wits and most of his health intact*.

He deserved to become a loud voice on behalf of those who traditionally have no voice because of that experience.

He deserved to learn from that experience and use that knowledge to pave a way for others while becoming a better, stronger person for it.

He deserved to gain the attention and respect of those on the front lines of the fight against homelessness.

He deserved to have his thoughts and ideas on fighting homelessness heard

And he deserved to be remembered for his efforts long after he himself had passed on.

Done and done.

By all accounts he got what he deserved, and more. Because he got his just desserts, Mr. Smith forced open a door that I and others in my situation can simply walk through.

So requiescat in pace, Mr. Smith. I daresay your efforts on our behalf were not in vain. Would that I could prick the social conscience with half as much aplomb as you did. If nothing else, you've given me a grain of hope: if you could escape this woeful state, so can I.

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*I say "most" because Mr. Smith is no longer with us due to having succumbed to Amylotropic Lateral Sclerosis, otherwise known as "Lou Gehrig's Disease".

Slats Missing from a Picket Fence

2006-03-25T11:21:00.000-05:00

Was going to post today, but the entire time I'd allotted myself to post was spent answering gerard v's charges. You can read up on them on his blog here.

What I'd like to ask all my readers is that has anyone found gerard's advice helpful? Let me know. If so, I'll happily retract what I've said.

And if anyone believes that I've bashed people, made them feel inferior, or perpetrated any other indignity, let me know, and I'll happily retract and apologize.

Actually it's occurred to me that the guy's actually kept up with the blog, even if he ruffled feathers. To him and others of you who've stuck with me this long, thank you.