if you build it they will come

I took M to visit my artist friend, the one who teaches in a neighboring village. She is a prominent artist in the West. But here, her art classes are taught in a building that looks like this. It's adjacent to the village school which might actually look worse than this.
I didn't realize M would get to participate but she did. She jumped right in with the other kids and learned to make a shadow puppet. The kids here work on the floor or on simple benches inside this dirty, hot building but they don't complain because this is the only art class to be found.

After the puppets were finished the kids put on a show. M is waiting her turn while watching some of the bigger kids perform. Their stories are a bit jumbled but there is much laughter and some shyness, they aren't used to performing like this. The benches can double as work tables, an extremely creative use of simple pieces of wood. M is very proud of her puppet and was even allowed to bring it home with her. Her puppet, by the way, is an apple. She performed with the teacher who used a horse puppet. Of course, the horse ate the apple. Smart horse.
After the class I cajoled my artist friend again and asked her to bring her talent to the kids in our village and she agreed to come for a month over summer but said we have to provide the art supplies because she's already out of pocket with her current work. But it means that the kids in our village will get a chance to exercise their own potential, so that kids like G can come and learn. I remind her again about G, about how much he could benefit from her lessons and she tells me to show her a child who could not benefit from art and I had to agree.

The below picture is of G and M, practicing their art at my dining room table. He still comes round almost every day.
When I told him about the art class his grin was wide and sweet. I come too? He asked. Well of course, G. This class is for you.

I'm away this week, headed by bus to Mexico where I'm meeting my two best sister friends from the States. I'm leaving the jungle behind for a week and while I'm a bit nervous leaving M I am thrilled beyond measure at the thought of cold beers and the ocean, sisterhood and clean sheets. But between now and then I'm 12 hours on a rickety bus, getting there may be much less than half the fun but well worth it for what's on the other side.

And in case you really miss me this week, I've also written my latest BlogHer installment.  Go take a peek and let me know what you think.

school daze

I met a woman who teaches art classes in another village.  We've become friends so I asked if I could come and see her and see what she does.  The village is about 30 minutes from here down dusty bumpy roads winding along jungle river.  She is an artist in every sense, from her clothes to her walls to her manner of being, this woman.  I like her.  So she takes me to the school where she teaches, she shows me her ramshackle classroom and she's somewhat embarassed, not of herself or her work but of what is painfully obvious, these kids have nowhere close to what they need. 

She volunteers her time here, she's involved in the village and is commited to the children.  Her art space is at the local school and as we walk the kids swarm her.  Art today they ask no children, not today and we keep walking.  She shows me pictures, she has shown the kids all kinds of art from puppet making to cassava root to macrame.  I try and teach them things they can turn into an income one day if they choose.  It's obvious how much she's done with so little, her passion and sense of community are nearly falling off the walls.

As we are wandering around the school I see the bathrooms, outhouses really and I poke my head inside. I hear the little girls who've been trailing me start to laugh so I look at them that's the boys they say and giggle. Whoops I say but there are no signs so I don't feel so bad, apparently you have to be in the know to know the drill.  No matter who uses them they are terrible, they are so dirty and I want to cry and I can't imagine M every using these one day even though this isn't the school she'll go to I wonder what those look like and make a mental note that I've got to check them out before next year.

I say as much to my friend who already knows the score.  I tell her I can't imagine how people in charge could not care about this, not the teachers themselves but the higher-ups, the ones who set standards and make the rules and allocate funds and she laughs.  They probably send all their kids to private schools and I am sad because I am sure this is true. I tell her I wanted to talk to her about bringing some art classes to our village but now that I've seen these bathrooms it seems silly in comparison to even ponder but at the same time it's why she does it at all, to show these kids the world is bigger than these bathrooms and that they can do anything they set their minds to in this life.  

everyday picasso

Every afternoon any number of village kids come round to play.  I can't tell if they are coming to play with M or because we are fairly new and have toys they've not yet played with, I hope it's the former but I think it's also the latter. One of the kids who comes over is a boy I'll call G.  He's adorable, he's 8 years old and has lived in this little village his whole life.  As is common here his mother has to travel long distances for work so he's often being watched by cousins or other family and has a lot of time on his hands.

I've decided there are two reasons he comes over, one is to use our bathroom and the other is to color with M's colored pencils.  He will sit for hours and color in silence, using coloring books we have on hand and every so often he'll bring the picture he's working on over to me for my review. We even brought him one from the States and he finished the entire book in a few days.  

I was watching him last night and he looked up and saw me, a shy smile on his face.  I decide I have nothing to lose. You know, G, you are an artist.  Does anyone ever say that to you? And he shakes his head no. Well then, you should know I see that you are.  And he smiles and shows me his picture and he is so serious, his lines and shading are just so.  I ask him if he ever draws without lines and he nods his head.  I get him some paper.  Let me see what you can do and off he goes, studiously bent over the sheet of paper.  He comes back awhile later and I see he's drawn a sun.  I knew it, I said. I knew you were an artist.  He smiles and I ask him if he gets to draw in school or if there are any art classes and he shakes his head no.  I ask him if he has colors at home and again he shakes his head.  You come here to draw, don't you and he looks down at his feet.  It's okay if you do, G. Everybody needs a place to work on their art and you can come here whenever you want.  Thanks, he says.  I will go now but maybe I come back tomorrow. If it's okay with your family it's okay with me I say. As he's leaving M screeches goodbye and asks what we were talking about.  I tell her knowing G can hear me G's an artist. He is an artist and artists have to create.  There are no two ways about it.  I see him puff up a bit before he looks down again.  I like this kid G.

I don't know this kid's potential but I know he's not getting to exercise it.  His family struggles daily to meet basic needs and the village school has no extras, I see how it is and I see why and at the same time I sit and wonder if I gave him a box of art supplies and found a way to bring art classes to the village I wonder what might come from it, I wonder how many Gs live here and are simply never allowed to flourish the way they need to, to allow the color to come from their fingers and onto the page. And I wonder what can be done about it.

Blog Action Day

Today is Blog Action Day: Poverty and the MOMocrats are posting about various poverty related issues all day. You can check out what I have to say or read all the MOMo posts here. Of the many important election issues, we feel how the next President will handle the poverty crisis is one of the most critical.

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.

Obama answers MOMocrats questions

After being severely disappointed by the trivial questions asked during the last presidential debate, we decided to ask Senator Obama some of our own questions of substance and guess what, he's answered them. I am posting my question and his answer here and you can see all of the questions and answers over at MOMocrats now.

Questions we wished ABC would have asked:
1. From Jen: John Edwards spoke repeatedly about alleviating suffering and poverty for the poorest among us. With 46M people living in poverty and tens of thousands of homeless people in most major cities in our nation, what will be your response in addressing the lack of affordable housing in our nation?
Obama's answer:
Rising poverty is one of the most serious issues facing America today, and I believe that inserting simplistic tag lines or one-dimensional goals are unlikely to be helpful in meeting this challenge. As president, I will build off of my life experiences of fighting poverty and hopelessness as a community organizer, civil rights lawyer and elected official to make poverty eradication a top goal of my administration.

As President, I will increase the supply of affordable housing. In too many communities, low-income families are priced out of the housing market. Between 1993 and 2003, the number of units of affordable to low-income households fell by 1.2 million. I believe we should create an Affordable Housing Trust Fund to develop affordable housing in mixed-income neighborhoods. The Affordable Housing Trust Fund would use a small percentage of the profits of two government-sponsored housing agencies, Fannie Mae and Freddie Mac, to create thousands of new units of affordable housing every year. I will also restore cuts to public housing operating subsidies, and ensure that all Department of Housing and Urban Development (HUD) programs are restored to their original purpose.

In addition to addressing the housing crisis, my anti-poverty plan will significantly improve opportunities for millions of poor children and their parents by strengthening the economy for working Americans and providing additional resources to programs that have proven to be effective in reducing poverty. For example, my plan will expand the EITC, which is considered one of the most effective pro-work anti-poverty programs to date, to 5.8 million more Americans. Additionally, my EITC plan will increase EITC benefits for another 6.2 million Americans. I will also extend affordable, quality and portable health insurance coverage to every American and make significant investments in early childhood education to help low-income families. I will invest $1 billion over five years into transitional jobs and career pathways programs to engage more Americans into the workforce and help them succeed. I will also work to tackle chronic poverty in urban neighborhoods across American by creating Promise Neighborhoods in 20 cities to provide new hope and opportunities to residents of concentrated poverty.

Perhaps most importantly, my plan will only focus on strengthening and expanding the most-effective methods for reducing poverty - including taking steps to strengthen families by reducing domestic violence, rewarding fathers who do the right thing and giving parents the right to take time off from work to care for a sick child. That's why my plan includes expanding innovative programs like the Nurse-Family Partnership, a program that has nurses visit and train low-income first-time mothers, because it has been proven to have produced an average of five dollars in savings for every dollar invested and produced more than $28,000 in net savings for every high-risk family enrolled in the program. If my administration finds that one of its anti-poverty programs is not working, that program will be eliminated and funds will be routed to more effective uses.

Jen again:
This is the best, most comprehensive answer to the affordable housing crisis I've heard answered in the presidential campaign so far. This is exactly the type of dialogue we are hungry for so perhaps the mainstream media can take a page from our book next time they host a debate because no one and I mean no one should be asking about flag pins anymore.

If you want to see all of the questions and answers, head over to MOMocrats now.

Edited to say: We also asked the same questions of the Clinton campaign and have yet to hear back.

holes in the bucket

Thanks for all of your comments on my last post. It's funny because I feel like a failure in these moments, that if only we'd been better at what we do then perhaps this sort of thing might not keep happening. For me, it's a loss. It's a weird dilemma, you want to be on the winning side of poverty and yet there are no winning sides. Non profits are futilely at the end of the line trying to patch social issues after they've already been damaged and battered beyond repair on their way downstream. Being at the front end, sitting in the policy tank has always made more sense and yet it's never been something accessible to a shelter girl like me.

And yet if those suits ever had me at the table you can imagine the things I'd say and not a lot of it nice. Perhaps that's another reason why I'll never get there.

Because see, folks only want to hear about what's working, about how their work has made a difference, how their bill created more jobs or more health insurance for kids. And whether that bill passes or not they go home to a nice house and food in the fridge. I am guilty of it too, I didn't tell you about the 25 people who slept outside last night because we were full and even though it's raining bureaucracy prevailed.

And perhaps it's another thing too. Sometimes I wonder if we all stood directly in the face of the heaving weeping desperate horrifying ridiculous problem of poverty in America if it might drive us all stark raving mad.

little big girl

She pokes her head around the corner of my office. Jen? I look up. It's a girl I've known since she was 11 and I haven't seen her in a year or so and she's probably 16 by now. Her long hair falls around her face. Oh my god, honey. Hi! I jump up and walk over to the door and open my arms to embrace her.

She walks around the door and I can see her fully. Holy shit, she's enormously pregnant. I look at her belly and look in her eyes. She looks at me and then away and I give her an awkward strong hug.

So, babe, holy shit. You look absolutely beautiful but wow, this is a surprise. I know, she says. I had to come and see you. I'm so fat. Honey, you aren't fat, you're pregnant. And exhausted too, right? She nods her beautiful head.

She came to us five or so years ago, her mom had left a horrible abuser and was attempting to raise her and her little brothers on her own for the first time. Mom was terrific but overwhelmed, a lifetime of abuse and poverty had dictated her reality, she had babies too soon and struggled ever since. Ami was the oldest and adorable, a young girl who'd seen too much and wanted the love of her father above all else, something she'd never get to have.

She quickly took to some of us and over the course of a couple of years we became surrogate older sisters. I remember her coming to talk about sex when she was 13, a terrifying conversation of peer pressure and boys, of risks and loneliness and confusion. I tried then to dissuade her, to remind her of her beauty and strength and value. She listened and yet took some the condoms from the dish on my desk and I knew then and in the year to come, by the make up on her face and the clothes she wore, I knew we were going to lose her. I've seen it too many times, this desperate searching for love.

They moved out and on and at the time I told her what I tell all the kids, that they can always call and I am always here. I can imagine the courage it took to finally show up today as pregnant as she was.

She looks so small to me now, her gigantic belly covered by a t-shirt with bunnies on it, the irony is almost too much. Are you okay? How can I help?

I'm so scared to have this baby, I know it's going to hurt so much. Well, babe, it probably will. But you'll get through it because you are one of the strongest girls I know.

Are you mad at me? She looks down at her belly. Honey, of course not. But I'm sad for you because you are still so young to be going through this and to be honest, I am somewhat in a state of shock. What happened to the condoms? She smiles. I knew you'd say something like this. And yet she came anyway.

It's a boy, she says. I'm naming him Alex after his dad. I smile while simultaneously wanting to find this little fucker and strangle him. That's a good strong name, babe. A perfect name. She lifts her little Hello Kitty backpack onto her lap and starts looking for something. Stickers and a stuffed animal and gum and a bunch of papers are piled onto my desk. She finds what she's looking for and hands it to me. It's a sonogram picture. He's gorgeous, I say. I can't wait to meet him.

We talk a bit more and she asks some birthing related questions and all of a sudden her mom walks into the room. She looks at me and comes over and hugs me and I look at her too and I want to cry. So what do you think? She says. I think you're going to have your hands full grandma. She smiles. I know. She's so young and I wanted her life to be different than mine.

And I don't have the words because I believe her and yet it's so obvious this was where Ami was headed, it was all the life she knew. It's the intergenerational poverty and a broken family and the repeating the past that slays me the most, this beautiful girl never really had a chance.

It's time for them to go and we all hug again. I hold Ami tight and remind me that I am here to help. I just wanted to see you, she says. I'll call you after the baby comes so you can come see him.

And I will. And we'll help her if she needs us, the mother passes to the daughter and the daughter becomes a mother, babies having babies and the drum beats on.

neighborly relations

It's early morning at the far side of the park and I see the signs that homelessness is somewhere close. The toiletry bottles stashed under a table, the multiple hotel sized ones, we give those out nightly and that blanket looks familiar too. M and I are on our way to meet some friends.

What's that stuff, she asks and I tell her it's someone's close by. Where, she asks. I don't know, I reply, but as I answer he rounds the corner. Behind the dugout and under the bleachers, I see them sleeping there sometimes but usually not in February.

He sees us nearby, not a threat to his stuff but perhaps closer than necessary. He walks over and has what M would most definitely call a mean face. She wraps her arms around my legs and hides behind them. Out of my element I am sometimes thrown, and on a still not sunny morning in the park with my kid I am thrown a little more.

I think I recognize him, but years of huddled bearded burly haggard tired dirty men can sometimes blur. It's not something I'm proud of because it seems like each face should be carved into my memory. I grab her hand thinking we'll keep going, this happenstance run in doesn't have to be a thing. I've seen her before, he says, pointing at M. Ah, then. Introductions are being made. Here or over at the shelter? I ask because I don't know. Over there. She never sits still does she. More of a statement than a question and to be honest I agree.

That'd be us, I reply. Were you over there last night? Yep, and I slept for shit so left early to try and sleep out here. And then he glances down at her again. Sorry.

If that's the worst thing she hears today then I'll be doing pretty good, I reply and he smiles a half smile, we are still a bit close to his stuff and I see him looking at it and her and probably wondering if she's going to not sit still all over it so I keep holding her hand. I have an extra muffin if she wants it he says. It will never cease to amaze me how many homeless men and women who have almost nothing offer to share what little they do. M is always offered things at work, trinkets and food and sweets and it always touches me. She just ate, but thank you.

Alright then, maybe I'll see you around. And he turns his back and we say goodbye and walk on through the green grass and the grey clouds and the just waking up sounds towards our friends at the other side of the park, the side brimming with kids and snacks and laughter and sand.

babies

First, Hetha shared this post with me today and while it'll be part of next month's Roundtable, it deserves a read now too. It's unconscionable that children grow up in these conditions.

Second, the rest of my heart and soul is sitting over at Mad's today.

We are all mothers here.

John Edwards leaving the race

I woke up to the news that John Edwards is projected to drop out of the race today. While I can't say I'm shocked, I am definitely sad. Edwards kept his playing field focused on the issues and focused on the human beings who need his message most. He was the one candidate who specifically addressed poverty and his passion for alleviating poverty touched a nerve deep within me. Spending a decade working with the homeless and in shelters has allowed me to straddle the fence of the darker side of America, the one where many do not have enough to eat or a roof over their head. People, amazing, beautiful people who are forced to allow illnesses to go untended and can't feed their children. People who by virtue of poverty alone are systematically stripped of their basic human rights until they've lost everything, hope included.

And for a brief while we had our leader, a man who I was entirely convinced would address this worst kind of human suffering from one of the most important offices in the world.

John, thank you for bringing poverty and suffering center stage. I can't wait to see what you decide to do next.

This post is cross posted at MOMocrats.

trouble (pt. 3)

I brought M to work with me late in the afternoon. We'd selected a Spanish book of hers to share as well as some snacks, we'll make this a playdate if it kills me. We walk in the door and it's crowded but through the mass of people I saw them sitting in the spot we reserve for families. I notice the little girl is fast asleep and then I see her mother. Something is wrong.

I pick M up and walk over fast, mom is sitting on the floor, she's crying and wrapped in a blanket. As I get closer the blanket falls down and I realize she's holding her stomach. I go to her and she motions to her belly, a man nearby says it's hurting her a lot but it's not the baby, it can't be, she's only seven months. Men, I think as I grab my phone because who knows what month it really is and what does that matter anyways. Ambulancia? I ask and she nods so I call 911 and within minutes they arrive. In the meantime we lay her down and put a pillow under her head. All the while her daughter is still sleeping and I am wondering how she'll wake, during or after her mom is already gone. Shortly paramedics flood the room and start peppering her with questions: how far apart, at how many weeks did you deliver last time, has your water broken? She's looking at me and I stop them. Spanish. They need to speak Spanish but none of them do so a client steps forward and translates. By this time they've loaded her on the stretcher, her husband has to stay behind because kids can't ride in the ambulance. Her daughter wakes up as she's being wheeled out of the building, I see her sleepily watching the tail end of the action and wonder if she'll cry.

I hand the paramedic my card and ask him to give it to the doctor. She won't know how to get back and her husband won't know how to find her. You must have them call us. They nod, eager to go.

The little girl is awake now, she sees M and gives her a shy smile. M looks at me and smiles and tugs me over. She sits on her mat and opens the bag she brought and brings out a book. She hands it to her and they start reading side by side. One of the staff brings them some chips and I want to interfere but I don't. M realizes immediately chips, she says and beams at me. Just one, I say, futilely and I know it. Three, she replies and turns back to her new friend, mouth already full. Her father is standing in the corner, two countries and an ambulance between him and everyone else. I realize then mom is the rock and without her there, I worry even more. He doesn't even know where the hospital is and he's not asking. I realize he's staying here and she's on her own.

We stayed for another hour and then came home, the girls giving each other shy hugs as we leave and M asking to come back tomorrow, this chips still fresh on her mind. There's been no word since, no word on if the baby's coming or if it's something worse but no matter what she's lying somewhere alone in a hospital while the rest of her family is on the floor. If there's no news this morning I'll go to the hospital, either way the story goes on.

Today's the last day to send your Just Posts to me at girlplustwoATyahooDOTcom. There's still time to join us at the Roundtable as we celebrate the first year of Just Posts.

where do the children play (part 2)

I was haunted by the little girl I mentioned yesterday so I went back to see what we could do. I walk in and see them immediately, mom sitting watchful over the sleeping toddler on a mat on the floor. I quietly inquire and learn that one of the staff found them on a street panhandling and hungry, and they can't speak english. I round up an old timer who's able to translate and go and sit on the floor next to the mom. After some back and forth I learn that the husband had work for a while but it's gone with the weather, they are unable to get any sort of governmental assistance as no one has papers and they have literally no money at all.

The little girl wakes up while we are talking, she is radiantly beautiful with thick black hair and chocolate eyes. I smile at her as she clings to her mama, a shy smile peeking through. After obtaining her permission to see if we can find room at a family shelter we make some calls and come up empty but weekends are tough like that and I wasn't surprised. I then ask if they need anything and the mother says they have no diapers or warm clothes beyond what is on their backs. That's easier to manage so we quickly call a co-worker and arrange delivery for all of it (thankfully with holiday generosity our supply closets are full). I can't help but notice the little girl's fingernails, they need trimming and they are black with dirt. I can't imagine how she keeps her kids clean the way they are living and even though I've seen it a thousand times I am getting soft in my old age, or better said my mothering age and I feel lost sitting there because it's still going to take a few days to find something else and this is no place for kids.

The mom stands up and as she does I realize she's not only pregnant but hugely so. She already looks young, terrified as can be, and now this. The old timer translating didn't know either, he looked at me as she stood and his eyes widened. Shit, he said in english. Embarazada, in Spanish. She nods quickly and looks at the floor and my mind is reeling. I ask her how far along and she says seven months so I ask if she's seen a doctor and she shakes her head no. I am gripped by this, this young woman terrified and homeless, about to give birth without any prenatal care sitting in the pouring rain with her child and a hundred street folks. I gently ask if she'd like to see a doctor and she nods her head yes.

Her daughter is two but acts much older. She doesn't leave her mama's lap, she doesn't fidget or complain. She sits that way for over two hours, something M could never do in a million years. She's so well behaved it breaks your heart, as if she's learned to expect so much less in such a short time. Her mom is so good with her, tender in the best sort of way, a way I fear I might not be able to muster if I were in her shoes. I am curious to know how they ended up here, how or if they crossed the border as a family, how they've survived till now but it's a dangerous topic and besides, we've only just met. I tell her in broken spanish that I have a little girl too, perhaps her daughter would like someone to play with and she nods her head yes, a smile on her face. She tells her daughter and she smiles broadly at that so I promise to return with M tomorrow and let the girls play.

I leave shortly after, on the way home I remember I need to stop at the store. I am standing in the produce section mindlessly choosing organic fruit over the other when all of a sudden I start to cry. I am looking at bananas in tears because it's fucking audacious and incomprehensible that I drive away while she sits with her daughter on her lap in a cold room on the floor and I get to choose fruit without thinking of the price. I almost want to do something crazy like throw myself on the floor and wail amidst the tomatoes, the vine ripened and the romas, the fancier ones that were probably imported from a million miles away but instead I finish, head down and purchase things we could most likely do without while a woman just like me has absolutely nothing, and I mean nothing in this world to call her own but the family around her.

Occasionally some of you ask me how I do it and today I don't know. Today I am haunted by this woman, this girl. Today I hate poverty and I hate the unfairness of money and chance and luck and lineage. I hate borders and hunger and the priorities of our nation. Today I am shamed that our house only has three people in it and we have money in the bank and food in the fridge. Today I will bring my child to a play date at a shelter because I don't know what else to do.

eight years old

Eight years ago this month I helped deliver a baby, the first birthing I'd ever been a part of. The mom was living where I was working with her two children and one on the way. She was an amazing woman, she'd left a very difficult situation and was navigating life on her own with her kids, in poverty and alone and yet with extraordinary grace. She'd asked me to be present at the birth because there was no one else and I said yes because she asked and because there was no one else.

We never spent any time preparing for the birth, and in my ignorance I hadn't thought to ask what sort of help she wanted because to be honest she'd asked for nothing other than my presence. Now that I know what I know I'd have handled it differently but that was then and this is now and if I could go back in time I certainly would. She went into labor in the middle of the night and I went to be with her and 10 or so hours later she gave birth and I was there for all of it and I swore off ever having a baby and was completely humbled all at the same time. I remember going home from the hospital and sobbing for hours, great buckets of tears from exhaustion and marvel and admiration and fear. She soon moved out with her beautiful children into her own home and a new life. She stayed in touch for awhile, a bond had formed between us during the birth, something sacred and quiet that we never much discussed.

She called me on Xmas Eve, a few years have passed since we'd spoke and no news is good news, being forgotten is a good thing in the work I'm in. But she was in trouble for the first time in a long time, her housing had fallen apart and she was in a bad spot, she and her kids were in a motel. Time was of the essence because nothing sucks up your money faster than a nightly motel and I could hear it in her voice I know it's been awhile but I hope you remember me, you helped deliver my baby eight years ago and I need your help one more time. On Xmas I connected her with a colleague who I knew could help and that good soul came through yesterday and my old friend can move her children into her new home today. So I sat up late last night remembering for the first time in a long time the gift she gave me way back when as she showed me a new kind of courage, bravely birthing her child with love and with grace, alone with no visitors or flowers in a cold hospital room and not much more than a stranger beside her holding her hand as she pushed.

two little girls, pt 2

Because I know her story now belongs to all of you:

I woke up cold yesterday thinking of her so I spent several hours researching options and phoning in favors. The kids are on the floor, it's cold. But this close to Christmas the rooms at the inns are already so full. No one's fault really, there are hundreds of little girls just like her already holding tight to the little some of us can provide. But after a couple of hours of scheming and negotiations I struck pay dirt, a room that can hold all of them in a program two towns over. A room they can move into tomorrow.

Unable to reach the family until we open the site back up in the evening I accept this program on their behalf, knowing all the while that it's their decision and all I can do is present them the option and let them decide. But feeling victorious, we tackle how to get them there at the appointed time if the answer is yes. So we arrange for the ride still knowing all the while it's not up to us.

I am waiting for them when they walk in the door. The kids aren't doing so well today, the cold is wearing them down, one is crying, M's friend is half asleep and her nose is running. Mom looks so tired. I might have been grinning when I saw them but if you ask me about it later I'll lie and tell you I was simply doing my job.

We sit down together at a table and I carefully share the news prefaced with the understanding that they are in no way obligated to accept and with apologies for not being able to include them in the process. They listened quietly, mom starting to cry. I shared all that I knew: a well reputed program, a private room, they can all stay together, it's free and they can stay up to three months, it's out of the cold, it's for families and it's better than here. I told them I'd let them discuss it as a family and I stand up to give them some space but the mom blurts out we'll take it, and the dad nods his head. Yes. But celebrations are mixed since the kids are sick. I watched M's friend have a meltdown, her little body exhausted from endless bus rides and drafty cold rooms, long walks in the cold and a lack of nutritious food. Her mom gently laid her down on her mat with a blanket folded up to make a pillow, the noise and the lights unwavering still. She looked so much like M in that moment, three year old girls are the same everwhere I suppose.

So today is a good day and a scary day, this family who will be placing their faith in strangers who will drop them off at a strange place with people they do not know. And these people will welcome them in and give them food and blankets and clothes and toys and they will work with them to find jobs and increase their income, to get the older daughter in school and to allow them some time to heal. And if the stars align it will stick and it will be the edge they need and they'll move from there into their own home and they'll never see the inside of one of these places again, but that's sometimes the stuff of fairy tales and we won't know till we know. But for now there's a happy ending, and we'll take what we can.

two little girls

Every year we open our winter programs which provide a few hundred additional beds for folks who need a place to escape the cold. I breathe a sigh of relief every year because I know how desperately those beds are needed for folks who manage to survive in the elements the rest of the year. I make a point of bringing M to the site regularly during the winter. She loves to go to mommy's work and help put the mats on the floor and I love it because she gets to see my passion and expand her mind.

Tonight started off the same, running into some old timers and old friends. One of the staff came up and said I am glad you're here. We've had more children the last few nights. It's no secret to anyone that children in these places damn near kills me and they know it and I know it too. Just as she finished speaking a family walked in with three kids, the youngest looks the same age as M. M noticed her immediately and ran up to her and the little girl reached out her hands and M took them and as it is with little ones, friendship was instant. Poverty is irrelevant, social class and all the rest. Children are always so much smarter than the rest of us.

Her mom approached and we started talking. Her story is similar to the thousands I've heard over the years and no less heartbreaking and once again this is no place for children. It may be relatively safe but her kids are on the floor in a warehouse amidst a hundred adults, a seething, exhausted place where the lights never go out and the concrete never gets warm. They have no car, no phone, no money. They spend their days at the library and their nights here with us. She's afraid to bathe them properly because there are no private shower stalls. Her children are beautiful and well behaved. Everyone smiles at the kids, the sadness and the joy of it, the old timers and the punks. Everyone smiles at the kids.

I cannot bear that this is the best we can do for these kids two weeks before Christmas so after obtaining her permission I start calling in favors and pulling some rank. There are kids here tonight, I say several times to several people whose cell phones I call after hours and yet they pick up we need to find them a place to live. After a bit some of the best case workers I know agree to come down and see what they can do. It's this spirit that never fails to move me. We move into action together and each person will bring something; money for the deposit, the friendly landlord, an open unit in their system. We bring these things and pool them and sort them out and see which one sticks this time around.

While this is happening M and her daughter are racing around up and down between the huddled masses. There is no fear to M, the burly, filthy, bearded men step around them in amusement and probably some annoyance as they sing and hold hands and dance their way around the room. They are both three and in this moment it would be easy to forget how different their lives are, how this little girl will sleep cold huddled on the floor after M and I go home. I see M flop down on the little girl's mat, laughing, she kicks her shoes off. This is fun for her, I know she can't understand and yet it feels wrong for her to do this. In this moment the unfairness rages inside of me. But they are two little girls having fun.

It's finally time to leave; all that can be done tonight is done and I promise her I'll return tomorrow with some warm clothes of M's and a case worker or two. She walks us outside and to our car and leans over and hugs me. This is so hard, she says. I squeeze her tightly and hold on. You are so brave, I reply. It might not feel like it but you are so very brave. We can do better than this. We will do better than this. And I know I am promising this to both of us.

On the way home M is chattering about how much fun she had. She asked if she could go to her new friend's house sometime and I turned around and looked at her. Baby, she doesn't have a house. She sleeps in that big room on the floor at mommy's work. Oh, she says. Oh. But we have a house, mommy. Can't she get a house too?

And we drive home to the warmth, the unfairness of it still rages on.

And ironically given how I am feeling tonight, I have a new review up about a toy M played with recently up at my other gig. If you want something a bit lighter and certainly more fun, clickety click.

choosing and doing and going

Every day I wake up thinking about homelessness, and when it's cold outside, it actually hurts. I'll slip outside in the cold air and I'll wonder about the souls who are also just waking up from their hard cold places and how differently they rise to wake the dawn.

As I am preparing to leave on vacation, madly tying up loose ends and most certainly forgetting something I am conscious still of the luxury of vacation, of the money frittered away on holidays and the casualness by which I am able to live my life by the merest and grandest factor of all: choice.

I recognize my blessings every day and on good days I use them in service of others. In bad days I might wallow through my own stumbling blocks and obstacles, perceived and real alike. I'd like to think it's the sum rather than my parts that matter in the end but regardless I wonder about the wasted time.

I know we'll see poverty of grand proportions on our travels. We somehow always choose places ridden with suffering, perhaps a rude or at least perplexing fascination worthy of one or two psychotherapy sessions or at least a fierce group hug. And yet with all of it I stand content in my reality, regretting none of the choices that have carved my world view and yet mindful at the same time of a long lost shine.

I'll be travelling for a bit and as such will be missing the lead up to the Just Post Roundtable this month so the indomitable and lovely Mad will be rounding up our links. So make sure to send them to her at madhattermommy at hotmail dot com. If this is new to you visit one of the purple and white buttons to your right. Oh and think of me once or twice as I frolic through the surf realizing a rest I want to deserve that some will never reach.

tradition

I've spent more Thanksgivings at work than not since I've been an adult. First there were turkeys in domestic violence shelters in college, then ham in group homes for troubled girls in graduate school. Then came turkey and ham at the shelters, both families and adults at different times over the years.

I often used this to my advantage, a reason I couldn't fly home for the holiday that no one could really argue with. And it allowed me to gracefully bow out of what was often an uncomfortable gathering. So tradition doesn't call for me because I've never really listened, something that while perhaps my destiny has always left me feeling a bit numb but in an okay sort of way. As I've grown older I've felt more conflicted about this sort of selfishness and escape. But it was for a good cause, not only did I actually have to work most years but Thanksgiving is a time to give back while giving thanks and I like you have been so richly blessed.

But this sort of thinking is fueled by society. For some reason we can let folks go hungry all year but we find it inconscionable that everyone's belly isn't full on Thanksgiving. That no matter what the circumstances are, the community generally rallies around feeding the poor tomorrow. While grateful, always grateful I am also frustrated because folks are hungry in January and certainly in March. Turkey tastes just as good to a hungry person mid-December and maybe even better in May. But tomorrow everyone who needs it will most likely be full.

And so it goes, this strange river. And tomorrow I'll make my own turkey and give M a day she'll remember with our small family and some friends and at some point we'll probably head over to work just to check in, to see how things are going. This year not because I have to but because it's the one thing that IS my tradition and something to pass along to my child hopefully in an eventual broader context about suffering and community response, about hunger and hope. Because while I resent that we only catch people's attention twice a year I can't help falling for it every single time, the extra food and good cheer and surprise visits, the people who come by to drop off food or to volunteer their time because it makes me feel hopeful that something will stick, that more of these folks will see it as a longer commitment, that they'll want to do more all year long, and that somehow something will magically shift. And I am buoyed by that glimmer of hope just as I am moved by the folks who will wait for it too, whose waiting is cold and lonely and hungry and yet hopeful, still.

power to the people (who need it most)

I often wonder what might happen if all the working poor, impoverished and homeless men and women in our country decided to back a candidate and use their voting power. Some of us have tried to harness this energy in the past, bringing polling places to shelters and holding voter registration meetings. But what I haven't yet been able to do is bring a candidate to the people, my offers to host a debate or a speaking engagement have fallen on deaf ears in campaigns past.

When I ask the folks on the street why they do or do not vote the answer is simple: they've been so marginalized and are so desperately living hand to mouth it's difficult to mobilize beyond a given day. Especially if it feels hopeless.

That's why I think it's critical this year that we reach these constituents and show them hope is alive. That there are candidates who want to improve the quality of life for those below the poverty line. Edwards professes this hope and has taken this message across America. But I often wonder if he is still missing the audience who needs to hear it most, the ones hardest to reach yet who have so much to say.

I invite John and Elizabeth Edwards (and all the candidates for that matter) to hold a town hall meeting inside a homeless shelter, one open and welcoming to the homeless and impoverished communities so they too can lend their voices and their votes. Candidates are forced to focus on raising funds for their campaign, an obviously important goal and yet one that can sadly exclude those who cannot afford the entrance fee and once again, their voices are lost. And what a shame, considering you'd get some of the most honest questions you could hope for, ones that aren't shiny and policy wonked, ones that come from the heart and where the stakes are high. We could all learn from those who are actually living the issues we are trying to fix.

I recently asked an old-timer if he was following the presidential races. He looked at me and laughed and shook his head. Don't have much reason to think those folks care what I have to say or will work hard for us anyways, can't see how it matters much to me.

Let's show him and so many others that this time is different. this year there is a reason to believe. That there is a candidate ready and willing to fight for the alleviation of suffering. If you could make time for us Senator Edwards, I'll promise you a packed house.

Cross posted at MOMocrats.

you have to wonder

I was reminded of it last night. That every single day I get asked for help. And I am not even on the front lines anymore. It was worse then. Dozens of times a day, from the mundane needing to use the phone or needing some formula for your baby to the desperate having no place to sleep. Every single day. Help.

Yesterday a woman called me, freshly battered by her husband. Three kids and nowhere to go. Help. A colleague called. She'd found a homeless man with an eight week old baby. Mom split. He holds him like a football she said. They have no place to sleep. Help.

Every day I am asked for help. For ten years and counting. Help. Need. Help. Today I will get asked for help.

You have to wonder what that does to a person, running across all this pain. What it does to one's soul. And no wonder I often think everything is fucked. Or not. Sometimes it's beautiful, all this suffering. Help.

I forget to notice until I remember. I remembered last night. I felt it deeply for the first time in a long time. It's my job. All this help. I'm not complaining, just wondering. Lots of us go through this. Doctors, every 15 minutes. Teachers, non-stop.


How do you get asked for help?

Speaking of, it's the last day to send me your Just Posts. Our Roundtable is coming up. Send them to me at girlplustwoATyahooDOTcom. Help.