passing through

I always notice the old timers, this one can barely walk, he needs a walker and another person leading to get him where he needs to go. Rumor has it someone dropped him off last night and how folks can do that is something I will never understand. He's walking past me with another man guiding him along when I hear him say my pants pull up my pants and I glance over, his pants have fallen down around his ankles and he can't fix them without letting go of something and then he'd surely fall. The man who's helping him stops and turns around. He looks and looks around the crowded room, there is no easy way to do this but to bend over and pull up his pants. He does it and reaches around his waist to fasten them. He does this and I am glad for it and I also want to cry.

One of my long time friends is back, he was at the hospital for awhile and he's come back older. He's got a cane now and it doesn't seem right. He's come to define this world for me, this man and his smile and his back and forth, it's been a decade now and nothing has really changed. It's tragic and senseless and I will always root for him and every time I see him he asks about M. He asks me every single time because he remembers the before and the during and now he sees her grow.

I'm getting ready to leave as he's coming in. He sees me and comes running over, his hug lifts me clean off my feet and his laugh is rich and deep. I ask him how he is although he's clearly beaming. I am so good. I am so, so good. I think I've found a place to live. His smile is electric as he tells me all about it, gesturing wildly and occasionally pausing to greet others on their way inside with a slap on the back or one of those man hugs, the kind where you clasp each others hands and your chests bump. I like watching those man hugs and his happiness is infectious. You are doing it, man. You are on your way.

I walk to my car conscious I'm leaving for a few days, my mind ponders the irony of where I am heading and what I am leaving, that poverty can live alongside whimsy and somehow there is room for both and it seems wrong, a preternatural coexistence of sorts. But then again so many things seem wrong when I walk in and out these doors.

i think it was the fourth of july

He's in the park, she said, this nameless woman calling out for help. I see him there every day. Every day for years and I don't know what to do. He's always in the park. This isn't right. Can't someone help? I know this cry, someone somewhere needs to do something. Someone. Somewhere. Do Something.

I hear this and pause. Search and rescue crosses my mind, the notion of a St. Bernard with little barrel flask around his neck, I think of snow for some reason which makes no sense. One of us, one of our tribe who never says no he goes and he goes cheerfully. Let me just check it out and see what's what, he says. And he goes to that park.

A few hours later there's an update. This man in the park. No shit, he's been outside a very long time. But for some reason today is our lucky day. He comes with my friend and he goes inside. He's eating, my friend says. He sure is hungry. I've got him settled and he'll stay here for the weekend and then we'll go from there. But you know, it's crazy. He's a vet and he says he's been outside for 20 years.

And for some reason I feel like crying.

This was a week ago and yesterday I meet this man from the park, my co-worker brought him to meet me and with a look he tells me silently it's the guy, the guy from the park. He's bronze, so bronze he's leather, his eyes are kind and his teeth are shattered. I shake his hand and tell him I'm so happy he's with us and he shakes mine back and agrees. The three of us talk for a few minutes and I like this guy, I like him a lot. There's a sense you get and your first instinct usually sticks, because there are no pretenses unless there are and you spot those a mile away and it's fine but then it's different and there were no pretenses here. As he leaves he surprises me and leans over and hugs me and so I hug him back this bronze man from the park and I have to ask why did you finally come inside after all this time? And he looks at me and says well you know because he asked me to. And I can't help but wonder if that meant in all that time no one else had.

sugar and spice

My child is lucky. She has plenty of food and a safe home. Two parents who love her and books and books and books. She's learning to hold her own and to embrace her impending girlhood. Today she had a friend over and we walked over to the park. Her friend is a crazy climbing girl. She bounded up a tricky apparatus and looked down while M is looking up.

CCG: What's wrong, M? You scared? Big girls don't get scared. You're not a big girl.
M: I'm not scared and I am a big girl. But big girls can choose the things they want to do and I don't feel like doing this. And she turned and ran and jumped on something else.

And I smiled broadly, you go, precious baby girl. you go.
And realizing this truth, the import of the strength of growing our girls into women made me appreciate all the more reading Three Cups of Tea. I was deeply moved by Greg and his work in Pakistan, all in service of allowing girls to more fully realize their potential. I realize I may be one of the last people on earth who hadn't read it, but if you haven't it's more than worth your while. And it's reminded me again of what I already know: strong girls make for stronger communities.Image courtesy Greg Mortenson, Central Asia Institute.

heroes

One of the things I appreciate most about the blogosphere is the genuine support and love we choose to show each other, from the small and complicated parenting dilemmas to illnesses, relationships, and more.

And sometimes that more is more than any of us could imagine. Jenn recently lost someone, a man who was bravely fighting in Iraq in a war that most of us cannot understand. I may disagree fiercely about this war but I never for a minute forget that many brave men and women are carrying out the will of the US Administration with as much honor and integrity as possible and it's this work that is ultimately costing them their lives.

Today I ask you to go and visit Jenn and help me support her and her family as they come to terms with the most shocking loss of all. She's asking for our support by way of comments, tangible words she can share with her family and friends.

Heroes. It's a concept we discuss and debate, each has our own example and idea of what defines it. But for me, it's simple. To stand bravely in the face of adversity because you believe you are doing the right thing. Sgt. Matthew Blaskowski stood bravely and it cost him his life. And now his parents will stand bravely while they bury their son.

To the Blaskowski family and friends, I stand shoulder to shoulder with you in hope and anticipation of a world without war and peace for this great and tragic earth.

sicko

See it. Really. And then come back and let's talk about it. Or better, tell me what you think we should do.

Not everyone agrees with Michael Moore. But he gives a voice to the voiceless like no one else in the last decade. And those voiceless folks are all of us. Except perhaps for you Canadians. In fact, I need to know soon if healthcare is really as rosy as it was portrayed in the movie, because if so, I am putting a deposit on a two-bedroom in Toronto tomorrow.

I've actually got a lot more serious thoughts on this, heartbreaking achy ones but I'll need some time to formulate those and get back to you. Otherwise it'll just sound like loud sobbing from the corner. So for now, I'll just leave you with one of my favorite points: as long as we keep people impoverished, desperate and frightened they'll keep giving away all their power. And that is exactly what they want us to do. Let's take it back. Let's.

See it.

In other news it's time for our seventh Just Post Roundtable. Some of you may be wonderng what was going to happen to our Just Posts with Mad on blogiday, but never fear, justice prevails. Jess graciously offered to be the better half in Mad's absence and I can't thank her enough. We do expect Canada to represent even stronger that you've temporarily lost your home team advantage so bring on those posts.

If you have a written a post about social justice in it's various forms or you've appreciated one that was written by someone else, please send them my way to girlplustwo (at) yahoo(dot) com by June 7th and I'll send you the button. Go on. It's good for the soul and everyone is welcome.

We'll link all posts and anyone who refers one (or more) in our Just Post Roundtable on the 10th. If this is new to you, please feel free to check it out at the Just Post buttons to your right.

the unexpected gospel

A group of homeless men and women, eight in all, have recently come together to form a choir. I'd heard about them via the agency grapevine but I'd never heard them sing. I mentioned to one of the staff that it would be terrific to hear them sing at our next employee meeting and referred him to the person in charge of setting it up, and then (to be completely honest) it sort of slipped my mind after that.

So yesterday was our meeting, and when I arrived at the shelter that staff person said they are all ready to go. And I thought shit, they are not on the agenda. I asked him if he had talked to so and so in charge of blah and blah, and the answer was no.

But here are these folks, all raring to go. I immediately knew we needed to make this happen. So I hurried to make some adjustments and then went to talk to the head of the choir. Since they all live there and it was rather early, they were still in their pajamas.

So I check with the head choir woman, who was rather resplendent in a tattered pink chenille robe and a cigarette in hand, and asked if they could go on a bit sooner than they were expecting and she told me in no uncertain terms that that was not possible, they still had to get ready, clothes needed to be pressed, a practice run to be had. Ok then. I'll move things around some more.

So we figured it out and at the appropriate time I went to find them. I walked into the room and they were gathered in a circle in prayer, arms around each other. I stopped and waited till they were done with their prayers of gratitude, faith, and hope.

I brought them into the meeting after being carefully schooled by the choir mistress about the number of songs on the schedule, the proper way to introduce them, and the musicians involved (two absolutely gorgeous older gentlemen dressed to the nines with guitars in hand). It was a motley sort of crew; young and old, wheelchairs, canes, and a equitable distribution of races and genders. They looked gorgeous; each of them had ironed their clothes, some had ties and hats, and the women with makeup and heels. Battered second hand formal wear that was absolutely stunning.

They sang four songs in all; two choir gospel pieces (Oh Happy Day was one) and two solos with a bit of jazz. After they were done they received not only thundering applause, but a lengthy standing ovation as well. I heard one of them whisper, they are all standing. they are standing for US. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't moved to tears. We all were.

Beauty is everywhere. In the middle of a homeless shelter eight people of all backgrounds and experiences found each other through the commonality of poverty and rocked the house. Their love and passion and generosity in the midst of a terrible time in their lives was at once humbling and inspiring. The pride in their music was beautiful. They are proud of who and where they are, and adamant in the message they want to share; one of hope, one of love, and one of faith. They have nothing, yet are willing to share so much.

We should all be so blessed.

Happy Birthday, Senor Chavez

When we are really honest with ourselves we must admit our lives are all that really belong to us. So it is how we use our lives that determines the kind of men we are. Cesar Chavez.

Cesar Chavez was a true revolutionary for the poor, the laborers, the hidden backbone of our country. He fought for the families who pick our grapes, our berries. The invisibles who provide bounty for our produce sections, our silent green thumbs. He brought folks together and lifted them up, and he did it with passion, intensity, and respect.

I've had the honor of knowing many migrant farmworker families over the years. I can honestly say I've never met more hardworking people. Families that rise before the sun and return after dark, hands calloused and dirty, nails never quite clean. I've eaten some of the best tamales in my life with these families, they never fail to share their food, no matter how little they have. These men and women who love their children fiercely, who want nothing more than a better life for them than they have lived.

Happy Birthday, Senor Chavez. We remember you and your powerful words:

The fight is never about grapes or lettuce. It is always about people.

"We are confident. We have ourselves. We know how to sacrifice. We know how to work. We know how to combat the forces that oppose us. But even more than that, we are true believers in the whole idea of justice. Justice is so much on our side, that that is going to see us through."

When the man who feeds the world by toiling in the fields is himself deprived of the basic rights of feeding, sheltering and caring for his own family, the whole community of man is sick.

In this world it is possible to achieve great material wealth, to live an opulent life. But a life built upon those things alone leaves a shallow legacy. In the end, we will be judged by other standards.

A teacher, a mobilizer, an organizer, a leader. Your spirit lives on.